


Putting Holes in Happiness

by LizzieHarker



Series: The Only Truth We Know [6]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Hawkeye (Comics), Marvel
Genre: Angst, Bearded Steve Rogers, But only in theory, Canon-Typical Violence, Clint Barton & Natasha Romanov Friendship, Deaf Clint Barton, Homophobic Language, Hurt Clint Barton, Hurt/Comfort, Hydra (Marvel), Kidnapping, M/M, Nomad Steve Rogers, Non-Consensual Body Modification, Not Avengers: Endgame (Movie) Compliant, Not Canon Compliant, Other, POV Bucky Barnes, POV Clint Barton, POV Steve Rogers, Past Child Abuse, Protective Natasha Romanov, Rescue Missions, Sarcasm, Some Humor, The Arrowsverse, The Only Truth We Know, Torture, Winter Soldier Bucky Barnes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-04
Updated: 2019-08-27
Packaged: 2020-05-15 16:59:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 32,582
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19299943
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LizzieHarker/pseuds/LizzieHarker
Summary: And then he found the postcard sitting at the bottom of the pile.Clint had taken to sending them two years ago, after the Hydra Incident, a sign that he was still alive while on long-term missions. He never scribbled anything more than their address, but something about this card made Steve uneasy.It bore a weeping angel, her patina blackened by weathering to look like tears, her sword held before her. She looked far more horrific than melancholy.“Oh.”Before Steve could say anything else or look for a message, Natasha snatched the card away, face pale as she turned it over in her hands. Her voice shook, too quiet. “No, no, no. What the fuck are you doing, Barton? Why did you send this here?”Bucky leaned over the counter, his brow furrowed. “Natalia, what is it?”“A goodbye,” Natasha said, deflating. Steve had seen Nat in many facets: ram-rod straight determination, relaxed and laughing, casually defiant, but this . . .this was the first he’d seen her scared. “That card, that image, isn’t a token. It’s a cry for help. To save him because he can’t save himself.”“A Hail Mary,” Bucky added, and Natasha nodded.Part II of The Only Truth We Know





	1. One

Clint left “bad” behind a week and a half ago. Maybe longer. He’d lost track of the days between Barney taking his hearing aids, beating the shit outta him, and leaving him chained to a wall in the dark. He’d lost consciousness a couple times since. Metal shackles rubbed his wrists raw, the cold, damp air seeping into his bones and settling. It reeked of mildew and stagnant water, wherever the hell he’d been kept. The ache in his shoulders and arms had finally won out against the bruising pain in his neck.

His asshole brother had nabbed him just before Clint finished busting up the newest Hydra cell. By the time he’d felt the tranq, it was too late. His blood felt like needles, stabbing him from the inside out before the numbness took over and he’d hit the ground. Next thing he knew, Barney loomed over him like a bad dream and well... Clint wasn’t big on family reunions for a lotta reasons, but mostly on the seeing his family part.

He bit his cheek, desperate for blood or saliva to wet his mouth, and flexed his wrists again. He could break the bones and slip out of the shackles, but that meant he couldn’t use his bow. Or, you know, his fists. Futzing hell. He couldn’t take the bolts out of the wall and his feet barely scraped the ground. No leverage.

Clint sagged against his restraints. Everything hurt. Barney had always packed a punch, even when they were kids, and Barney still knew right where to hit him. Not once had Clint cracked under torture, but after hours or days in the darkness and silence, he felt himself beginning to give in. And that futzing pissed him off. Barney was a bully, a conman, a thief; but Barney was ruthless and had more than one way of getting what he wanted. And Clint was still firmly attached to the wall.

The air shifted, but Clint couldn’t tell whether the door had opened or some subterranean vent spilled fetted air into the room, or a ghost had gotten lost and decided bothering him was its best option. The darkness remained unbroken. Each blink felt like sandpaper scraping his eyes. Then he caught the small cherry-red glow of a cigarette tip. He shook his head. Hallucinations probably weren't a good sign. That red lit into yellow and white, and back to red. A curl of smoke, gray against black.

Immediately, his stomach dropped. Every childhood nightmare crept up through the dark and wrapped themselves around his limbs, around his throat, choking off the half-voiced cry of terror. He’d learned at a young age not to cry, not to scream, not to flinch, and as that tiny firebrand moved closer, Clint’s jaw clenched tight. Fear roiled in his gut, thick and sour. He choked down the urge to vomit; he couldn’t tear his gaze from that single point of light. A long inhale, the tip flaring again, close enough now that Clint caught a glimpse of red hair, smelled the acrid smoke, felt the heat from cigarette and foul breath alike. Every instinct in him demanded escape, but the shackles held, even as he twisted and panicked.

And then the burning end dug deep into his shoulder, reigniting the old wound, scarring flesh. Clint bit down on his teeth so hard, he swore he felt them crack. This agony wasn’t clean like the cuts and bruises, but ragged, sharp, and horrifically familiar. A hand slammed into his chest, shoving him against the wall as the cigarette stabbed below his collarbone. His shoulders involuntarily tried to curl, to protect. Smoke filled his nose and mouth. Clint’s lungs burned.

_Don’t cough, don’t breathe, don’t scream._

The old man futzing _loved_ to pin him down and grind out his smokes into Clint’s skin, hissing violently, drunk off his ass and cruel as hell. Clint trained himself to be quicker, to run at the first crashing footfall, the grating sound of his name. Either he made it to the bathtub and stayed there until his dad collapsed into a drunken stupor, or he didn’t. 

Again and again, the cigarette found skin through the tattered cloth of Clint’s shirt, the rips and gaps in his pants. After he’d been deafened the first time, well . . . fending off his old man got that much harder.

Clint’s limbs shook, from the lack of circulation and the sour, gut-rotting fear. His old man was dead. 

A flame flickered in the dark. 

His old man was dead. The old pickup trunk wrapped around a tree, two corpses in the front seat, blood and broken beer bottles. They’d made him identify the bodies. Nothing but bones now. His dad couldn’t be here. Not now, not ever. No.

The damp butt of the spent cigarette hit him in the face. A lighter flared to life. Red hair and pursed lips. The cigarette came alive.

His old man was dead.

A flash of teeth, a rictus grin.

Fire buried itself between Clint’s ribs, the soft spot at his waist. The cry slipped out before he could stop it and he bit down on his lip until he tasted blood, knowing the pain to come would be far worse. It was always worse when he made noise.

 

He wasn’t wrong.

 

His voice shattered hours ago, his throat dry, lungs desperately drawing air but never getting enough. Harold Barton never give up. So many cigarettes, so little skin. Clint cried out, high and terrified, but no sound echoed back to him. He couldn’t hear a damn thing, but he knew the sound of his panic like an old friend. The way his chest constricted, the ache in his jaw, the hollowness in his belly, all ghosts from his past returned. And like a ritual that remained in his bones, he cried out for his big brother, his protector, his best friend.

“Barney! Barney, please!” 

The words scraping their way out of his throat as Clint gave in, unable to stop the burning. Nowhere to run, nowhere to hide.

“Help me. Please, Barney, help me.”

The cigarette scalded Clint’s stomach, and for a moment, he didn’t know if he was going to throw up or pass out. His head dropped. Spots danced before his eyes. He felt lightheaded, the false calm crashing over him like a soothing wave, a blanket, a prayer for relief answered. Yeah, definitely gonna throw up.

His eyes refused to stay open. At some point, his lower lip had split, but not even the blood brought moisture back into his mouth. Barney wasn’t coming. Barney couldn’t save him from their old man and this was all there was left. Stale smoke, burning pain, soft ash.

And with that thought, Clint resigned himself, letting one last word slip before he blacked out.

“Okay.”

He watched the end of the cigarette hit the ground, the red cherry light snuffed out beneath the toe of a boot. Darkness swallowed him whole, but brought no relief.

 

 

Steve hummed to himself as he stopped by their PO box on his way home. No matter how long he’d worked for the gallery, it still amazed and delighted him how good it felt to be ridiculously boring. Not that his job ever stopped long enough to _be_ boring. He tucked the draft for the latest exhibit beneath his arm as he fished for the PO box key. Truth be told, he loved his job, and for the most part, the chief curator let Steve do whatever he wanted, from research to planning the new shows, to organizing their permanent collection. He wasn’t shoehorned into any particular category, though his eye for vintage advertising and typography hadn’t gone unnoticed. Imagine that.

He chuckled, taking the mail out of the box. The last show he’d curated turned out so well, he’d been given full reign on the next installation, a collection of abstract pieces. Bless Bucky; his doting husband let him wax on about emotion and power of movement, color theory, the amazing shift in art from portraiture and landscapes to this wild, unbridled, reckless display and interpretation. Steve loved every minute of it. And Bucky smiled and listened, watched him with laughter on his lips and joy in his eyes at how happy it made Steve to be back in the art world. They’d even let him enroll in art classes.

For Steve's last birthday, Bucky had renovated the spare room they used as a joint studio and converted it just for Steve. He still didn’t paint as often (where the hell would they put all the canvas?) but Bucky built him storage for his sketchbooks and larger pieces, and even framed and hung a few in their apartment. Steve’s favorite remained the ink and pen sketch he’d done of a photo Natasha snapped at their wedding. His heart overflowed with joy as he fitted the key into his door and stepped inside.

The soft patter of cat paws and warm laugh greeted him. “Aw, look, daddy’s home.” 

Ledi, their sweet gray Russian Blue, stood on her hind legs, front paws scrabbling against Steve’s leg as she begged for pets, rubbing her face against him. Steve scooped her up, holding her in the crook of his arm. She let out a happy squeal, and Steve wished he had a free hand to rub her belly. Bucky glanced up from his sprawl on the floor, his legs up on the couch. Natasha sat beside him, a dozen cat toys scattered around them.

Her lips were quirked. “Please tell me you don’t call him daddy,” she teased.

“Okay, I won’t tell you,” Bucky countered, pushing her shoulder. “How was your day, Stevie?”

Steve dropped his bag, the mail, and shifted to let Ledi drape over his shoulder. She snuggled closer, soft fur tickling his neck. “Good. The show’s coming along nicely, and if it goes well, they might let me keep planning them. How was yours?”

“Uneventful. Taught two classes, had a gal fall out of a headstand and scare the hell outta me, got a smoothie. Found Natasha in our living room playing with our cat.”

“What? I like cats,” Natasha said, dangling one of the feather toys. Ledi leapt down from Steve’s shoulder to bat at it as Bucky righted himself and stood to give Steve a kiss.

“You have your own cat,” he said, leaning into Bucky. He turned to his husband. “Is there anyone who _doesn’t_ have a key to our apartment?”

“T’Challa, probably, but it’s not like he needs one, either.”

He pulled Bucky into his arms and squeezed before heading to the kitchen. “Hey, Nat, if you don’t have plans, you wanna stay for dinner?”

“Depends,” Natasha answered, daring to rub Ledi’s belly. “Who’s cooking?”

“Bucky,” Steve answered at the same time Bucky said, “Steve.”

Bucky smirked. “C’mon, babydoll, don’t you wanna impress our guest?”

“If by impress, you mean accidentally poison, then no.”

“Fine,” Bucky said, and Steve could hear his eye roll. “I’ll make pierogi.”

Natasha looked up, beaming as she pumped her fist into the air. “Yes!”

 _“Vy prikhodite syuda, chtoby poyest’, Natalia.”_ (You come here to eat.)

 _“Ty prav (You’re right),”_ she answered, leaving Ledi alone to pat Bucky’s cheek. The cat mewed in offense.

Steve chuckled. His Russian had improved since they’d adopted Ledi ("she’s a Russian blue, Stevie, of course she knows Russian") and he loved the little slices of sibling-like teasing between his husband and his best friend. He started sorting through the mail, picking out the junk and setting the bills aside. Steve never thought there’d be a day when he didn’t dread bills, when they were financially set and stable. It was another reminder that Steve had been given another chance to fully live the life he’d denied himself so long ago. 

Natasha slid up beside him to chatter at Bucky over the breakfast bar as Buck dug through the fridge for dinner supplies. Whatever lingering discomfort they’d shared had passed, at least to Steve’s eyes. They were more relaxed around each other, and if Nat had broken into their apartment for kitten cuddle time, well . . .what better sign could Steve ask for? And Natasha was staying for pierogi. As far as Steve recalled, Nat had never shared a meal with them without the rest of their friends present. He beamed. Today was great day. 

And then he found the postcard sitting at the bottom of the pile.

Clint had taken to sending them postcards two years ago, after the Hydra Incident, a sign that he was still alive while on long-term missions. He never scribbled anything more than their address, but the sight of this card made Steve uneasy. Usually, they received two kinds: architecture for Bucky, and the occasional art card for Steve. They’d kept them all, their favorites stuck to the side of their fridge, a collage of images and places. 

But this one didn’t fit the pattern.

It bore a weeping angel, her patina blackened by weathering to look like tears, her sword held before her. She looked far more horrific than melancholy. And Clint had written more than their address.

“Oh.”

Before Steve could say anything else or look for a message, Natasha snatched the card away, face pale as she turned it over in her hands. “No, no, no. What the fuck are you doing, Barton? Why did you send this here?” Her voice shook, too quiet.

“Nat?” 

She didn’t answer, searching for something on the card and clearly not finding it. In the years Steve had known her, he’d never seen her like this. Natasha didn’t do shaken, and she sure as hell didn’t do _visibly_ shaken.

Bucky leaned over the counter, his brow furrowed. “Natalia, what is it?”

Nat shook her head again, red curls unraveling. “It’s a message— _our_ message. Why’d he send it you?” she snapped, more upset than angry. She turned the card over again. “What are the chances I’d be here when it arrived? That if I wasn’t, you’d call me?”

Steve and Bucky exchanged a look. Something felt terribly wrong. “I don’t . . . understand.”

“Of course you don’t. This wasn’t meant for you,” she said, her voice losing its hold on calm. “But this isn’t right. There’s always a spider. He always leaves a spider somewhere, or at least the hourglass, but this card doesn’t have one. It just says, ‘Take care of Lucky.’”

“Why would there be a spider?” Bucky asked, taking his turn to study the postcard. Steve watched Natasha barely keep from snatching it back, the muscles in her arms contracting. “Is he using your call sign as authentication instead of his own? And why would he tell us to take care of Lucky?”

Natasha let out a breath, expression pained. “Using my symbol was his idea. Anyone else using the system would assume he’d send an arrow.”

“Call sign?” Steve asked, sitting forward.

Bucky nodded. “We were all assigned a symbol to leave behind on kill missions to give us credit for the assassination when dispatched in high-risk operations. Mine was the star,” he explained, touching the star etched on his left shoulder. “Natasha, being the Widow, had the hourglass. The spider is the less obvious variation. No distinction.”

“We decided on the spider together, but there’s nothing on that card. Not even a smudge. The original system was based on a bad joke, but he’s never sent any message without that symbol.”

“But it’s here now,” Bucky said. “So what is it?”

“A goodbye,” Natasha said, deflating. Steve had seen Nat in many facets: ram-rod straight determination, relaxed and laughing, casually defiant, but this . . .this was the first he’d seen her scared. “That card, that image, isn’t a token. It’s a cry for help. To save him because he can’t save himself.”

“A Hail Mary,” Bucky added, and Natasha nodded. “Then he purposely had it sent to the wrong people. He doesn’t think he’ll make it out.”

Steve shook his head. “That doesn’t sound like him. Why would Clint do something like this?” A thought struck him. “What if the spider isn’t missing? Clint had to know we’d ask you about the card, that we would go to the spider.”

Natasha drew herself up, shedding fear for resolve. “Barton didn’t send it, and he gave whoever did the wrong instructions. That card is mine, but he sent it here instead because the message is yours. I’m not the wanted party for a change.”

“Must be refreshing.”

“Bucky,” Steve warned.

“Not unwanted,” Bucky said. “He sent us to you, you just happened to be already here.”

Steve felt the pieces of their mission falling into place. “If Clint didn’t send this, who did?”

“I think I know,” Natasha said. “We need to find him. Now.”

Bucky turned off the stove. “Natalia, you’re point on this. Don’t supposed Barton told you were he was going?”

“No, only that he’d be gone a week or two.” Steve watched the gears shift behind her eyes, and when Nat spoke next, her voice was soft and sharp. “Stark. He can find him.”

Steve nodded, jaw set. It’d been a long time since he’d seen that handwriting—over a year—but he thought he knew who’d sent that postcard, too.

 

 

Static pain flickered and flared along Clint’s arms. Wriggling his fingers made it worse, but he needed to keep the circulation somehow. Most of his burns and wounds had scabbed over and begun to itch, and if he was lucky, Barney came once a day to feed and water him. If Clint was unlucky (and really, had he ever been anything else?) the burning and torture started again. 

Barney could have left him to die: deaf, blinded by the dark and the pain; he could have broken Clint’s fingers, ruined him for firing a bow ever again. Instead, Barney left him in isolation for hours or days on end. Clint almost preferred his brother’s company. No, Barney could have—should have—left. He’d gotten what he wanted. Or believed he did.

Natasha, if she ever saw the postcard, would probably kill him if he didn’t die first. Guilt coiled in his gut the second after he’d told Barney about the postcard. That was their code. Not that he didn’t desperately want her to kick down the door, unleash unholy hell, and rescue him, but even though the message had been sent, he’d sent it to the wrong people. Clint harbored no doubt that Barney would come back the second he realized he’d been had. If Barney found him alive, Clint knew he wouldn’t stay that way long.

Hopefully, Buck and Steve would notice it was the wrong card. They’d call Nat. She’d be furious, but she’d know. She’d come.

Maybe.

Please.

He hoped she’d know she was walking into a trap. That she’d warn the boys. That they'd stay away.

He hoped there’d be something left of him for her to find.


	2. Two

Bucky hated the sight of Stark Tower. He hated it almost as much as he hated the guy it was named after. Okay: he didn’t _hate_ Tony; he didn’t really know much about the guy, and he didn’t blame Tony for hating him. It didn’t make the Tower seem any more inviting.

Nat led the charge, stalking up the doors and nearly kicking them down when they didn't part fast enough. Bucky knew this Natasha well. He felt old memories stirring as Natasha flashed a badge and Steve offered the security guards a curt nod. The guards moved to halt Bucky, clocking the metal arm almost immediately. A spike of adrenaline shot through him, but Natasha intercepted them, spitting, “Barnes is with us,” before ushering him into the elevator.

The doors shut soundlessly behind them. There was no panel for floor selection on any of the walls. Instead, a familiar British voice spoke from the ceiling. “Agent Romanov, Captain Rogers, Sergeant Barnes, what can I do for you?”

“We need to see Tony, now,” Natasha said.

Bucky glanced up as JARVIS answered. “I’m afraid Sir is out of the country.”

“Then take us to his workshop and call him.”

“JARVIS, we need Tony’s help,” Steve added. “He may be the only one who can help us locate Clint.”

“Of course, Captain. I’ll call. If you’ll please exit the elevator,” JARVIS said, opening the doors. Bucky hadn’t felt them move, but they’d somehow reached Tony’s basement workshop, robots working away behind glass walls. No sooner had the doors closed behind them, a screen opened against the glass, the hovering line expanding into a square filled with Tony Stark’s face. A warped memory of seeing _The Wizard of Oz_ floated to the surface of Bucky’s mind.

“Dorothy, Scarecrow, what brings you and the Tin Man over there to darken my doorstep?” Tony asked.

How fucking ironic.

“We need to you to track Clint,” Natasha said, walking through him and into the lab. She set herself behind one of the computers, fingers flying across the keyboard. “He’s missing and in danger. We need a location.”

Tony’s brow furrowed as he bent over what Buck assumed was his own computer. “Hang on. You know he wouldn’t let me track him right? Threatened me with disembowelment, if you can imagine. Figures that’s the thanks I get for inventing super cool, tricked out hearing aids for him.”

Natasha’s monitors flashed to a different screen, programming script running in columns across the side.

“If he wouldn’t let you get a read, what are you doing?” Steve asked, leaning over Natasha’s shoulder to study the text.

“I promised I wouldn’t actively track him, my dear Capsicle, not that the tracker wouldn’t be in place. We worked it out. What I’m sending now is a call and response code,” Tony explained. “If he fails to answer, the trackers activate.”

“Clever.” Natasha nodded.

“I am, yeah. Anyway, he missed two tune-up appointments last year when he was off doing whatever but since he answered both times, I figured he was just preoccupied.”

Steve glanced at Tony. “How long will it take?”

Natasha watched the call go out with silence in return. Tony furrowed his brow. “Three seconds. No answer. JARVIS?”

“Yes, Sir?”

“Run Operation: Homing Pigeon. I need a location on Agent Barton.”

“Of course, he makes it bird themed,” Bucky muttered, crossing his arms. He felt awkward, unsure where to place himself or how to help.

Tony fixed Bucky with his gaze. Steve stepped between them. “How long until we have a location?”

“Depends on how far out he is. Ten, maybe twenty seconds. Thirty, tops.”

The information scrolled across the screen, locations checked and crossed out, the map narrowing in rapid strokes. Bucky glanced around him at the workshop; several robots were not exactly cleaning, but bustling about doing something. In the back, a row of Iron Man suits glared at him. Bucky chewed the inside of his cheek. Natasha had a floor in Stark Tower (Steve did, too, somewhere), but he and Steve had both followed Nat empty handed. No suits. No gear. He turned around, giving his full attention to Tony. 

“We need a favor,” he said.

“Already doing you one. Well, doing Clint one,” Tony answered. “I’m great and powerful, but I’m not Oz, can’t give you a personality. Sorry.”

“Tony,” Steve snapped. “This isn’t the time.”

“Maybe it is,” Nat said, fixing her glare on Tony. “Get this pissing contest out of the way so we get back to what’s important. It’s obvious Barnes hates being here, and Tony hates him being here.”

“I don’t hate him being here,” Tony said, petulant. “I don’t . . .I don’t hate him. Okay, maybe a little. Look, I suck at this, all right?”

Steve glanced up, bewildered. “Suck at what? Apologizing?”

“Yes.”

“You don’t have to apologize to me,” Bucky muttered. Tony had been the latest in the long line of people out for the Soldier. Hell, at the time, Buck believed he deserved it. Steve, in true Steve fashion, had thrown Tony under the gun to protect Bucky. Steve still hadn't learned that there were problems a "fuck you" and a right hook couldn't solve. 

Bucky set his metal hand on his husband’s shoulder. “Steve. You owe him.”

Steve opened his mouth to argue, paused, then sighed. Holy shit, maybe he _had_ learned. "I should have told you. I should have explained. We _were_ friends, and the way you reacted . . .I can't blame you for that. You were right. It wasn't about me. It wasn't even about Bucky. Your feelings were valid, and the way I acted was selfish."

The tension in the room eased a bit. Buck nodded at Steve, encouraging.

Tony glanced from Steve to Natasha and back. “Yeah, well. You should have told me, but I understand why you didn’t. After the Mandarin . . .” Tony shrugged. “I needed some perspective. Thought talking to Bruce was good enough. I mean he’s a doctor.”

Steve relaxed under Bucky’s touch. “Did you find a real therapist? They help. I’d know.”

"Yeah, I know. Heard something about that through the Avengers Gossip Group Text." The projection shifted, the box widening to let Tony step into the room, his hologram moving toward them. Bucky startled when Tony spoke to him. “I was wrong,” he said, coming to a stop. “I was wrong. I’m not great at the having friends thing, but I should have known better than to act like a child because Steve defended you. And I was wrong about you. I don’t blame Bruce for the things the Hulk destroys; I shouldn’t pin my parents’ deaths on you.”

Bucky took a step toward Tony; the hologram stood firm, though Tony’s expression changed to a cross between challenging and uncertain, one brow arched and eyes narrowed. “Thank you,” Bucky said, sincere. “And thank you for helping us find Clint.”

“Uh, yeah, sure. Don’t think the nicknames are gonna stop though, Heavy Metal. Now what do you and Spangles need? Nice beard, by the way.”

Steve snorted. “The last thing we need are fucking spangles.”

“Language,” Nat and Tony both admonished.

Bucky rolled his eyes. Nicknames he could handle. “We need gear.”

Tony crossed his arms, looking them up and down. “Lemme guess: the two of you had crazy role-play sex and wrecked your old uniforms.”

The tips of Steve’s ears turned red, the blush spreading fast. Bucky stared back at Tony, expression blank. Steve's reaction unfortunately served as confirmation, but that didn't mean Bucky had to show his hand. Tony rolled his eyes in exasperation and headed toward Nat and the computer.

“Fine, gear, yes. JARVIS, show the boys a catalog and keep the selection PG, would ya?”

“What a shame,” Natasha deadpanned. “I was hoping you’d give Steve the combat thong." She froze, her motions quick as she reread the monitor. "We got him,” she said, pushing away from the computer.

“Why the hell is Birdbrain in Detroit?” Tony asked, peering over her shoulder. “People who live in Detroit don’t want to be in Detroit.” He raised his hands, a keyboard appearing beneath them. “Here’s the deal, chickadees: I can narrow his location, but I can’t get visual on him specifically. The GPS in his hearing aids can’t give me statistics or vitals. I'm working on it, trust me. The other catch is—“

“You can only find his hearing aids,” Bucky finished. “If Barton isn't attached to them, we’re outta luck.”

“Spot on, Terminator. Look, I can drop the bullshit I'm doing here and meet you. If you want me on the team.”

Natasha’s jaw clenched. “You're halfway around the world. No time. Get me an address, Stark, and the keys to a quinjet. I’m leaving in two minutes.” She stood and stalked back toward the elevator. “See you on the roof, boys.”

“So that's a ‘no’ on the makeover montage?” The elevator shut behind Natasha. “I'll take that as a maybe.” Tony turned to them, giving Steve and Bucky a once-over. “I don’t suppose either of you would go for red and gold?”

Bucky crossed his arms. “No.”

“Fine, don’t be any fun. Let’s get you dressed and off to the ball then, Cinderfellas.” Tony clapped his hands and rubbed them together.

Bucky rolled his eyes so hard, he thought he felt something snap, but Steve merely shook his head and followed Stark deeper into the lab. This was gonna suck.

 

_This is great_ , Steve thought, turning a bit to admire Stark’s handiwork before rolling up the sleeves of his new tac suit. The fabric was so dark a blue, it was nearly black, the black straps straight across his chest mirroring the ones on Bucky’s new outfit. Stark had kept the clean cut lines Steve's former Captain America uniform had. In fact, most of the getup was the same: black fingerless gloves, the black leather boots. The thigh holster was new; really, the only thing Steve wasn’t sold on was the scarf around his neck, but leave it to Tony to add in a splash of vanity.

For Bucky, Stark had pulled inspiration from his old WWII peacoat, the same dark blue as Steve’s uniform, the black straps on a diagonal instead of straight. The left side was sleeveless, leaving room for Bucky’s arm. Steve would bet good money that Bucky already had a dozen knives stashed away in that coat in addition to the one visible in its holster. He’d swept his hair back, and well . . .no wonder Stark had pinned them for destroying their old uniforms. Steve kinda wanted to wreck this gear, too.

Stark stepped back to analyze them and Steve shifted his focus under that not-there-but-still-scrutinizing gaze. After a moment, Tony shrugged. “Eh, it’s adequate. RoboCop, you can grab your pick of firearms from the quinjet. She’s fully stocked. I’m sure you recall. Hipster Steve, your shield is also aboard. If you want it,” he added. Before Steve could get another word in, Tony turned back to Buck. “One more thing. I want a look at the arm.”

Bucky froze. “That your price for all this? The threads, the guns, and the shield in exchange for becoming your lab rat? I’m no one’s weapon, Stark,” Bucky said, calm and quiet.

Tony shook his head. “I don’t want you to be my weapon, I want to know how it works in relation to your nervous system. And I want to improve it. JARVIS ran a base scan to get your measurements for that sick outfit—you’re welcome by the way—and the metal is pulling against your spine and what’s left of your shoulder in a way I’m sure doesn’t tickle. I’m asking for one afternoon, a couple hours. I’ll throw in dinner if that sweetens the pot, and yeah, Steve is welcome, too. I want to help. If you'll let me.”

Tony gestured for them to walk to the elevators, continuing once he fell into pace behind them. “Right now, it’s more important that you find Barton, preferably in one piece, but we all know that gets less likely the longer we wait. I don’t need an answer, but the offer’s on the table.”

Bucky didn’t look back as the elevator doors opened on the roof, the quinjet waiting for them. Steve didn’t have to see his face to know Bucky wouldn’t answer, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t considering Stark’s offer. Pain formed the baseline of Bucky’s existence, even after Hydra; Steve caught the way Bucky’s shoulder weighed on him when exhausted, how his spine bent to accommodate the pressure. Some days, Bucky couldn’t scrape together the strength to get out of bed.

He wouldn’t make Bucky accept Tony’s help, but the offer alone warmed a cold patch in Steve’s chest. Progress mattered, even in baby steps.

Setting foot into the quinjet brought Steve to a surreal moment. So much of his time had been spent on missions, more than he'd had downtime, really, during his Avenging days, but his life had taken him so far from Captain America that returning, even in a partial sense, felt strange. A small corner of his mind felt like he had come home. 

Tony’s image flickered out on the helipad and the hatch of the quinjet closed behind him. His voice sounded in the cabin. “JARVIS can fly you there and back. Let me know if you need anything. Seriously. Get Barton home.”

“We will,” Nat replied, leaning over the control board as JARVIS set course. She’d changed into her infamous Widow suit, the black material emphasizing the determination written in the lines of her body. “ETA, thirty minutes.”

Steve nodded, the tactical portion of his brain whirring to life. Bucky had the weapons rack out, considering his options. Old patterns were easier to fall into than Steve thought.

Natasha turned to them both, crossing her arms over her chest. “What do you know about Barney Barton?”

“Not much,” Bucky said, gaze still on the gun rack. “Clint told us Barney was his brother, that Barney abused him after their father died.”

“I couldn't find any records on him. We don't know what he looks like,” Steve added.

Natasha lifted her hand, another of those holo-screens appearing. A picture of a redheaded man popped up, along with statistics, records, and personal information. “Barney Barton, also known as Trickshot, is Clint’s older brother and a petty criminal trafficking in whatever pays him the most. Luckily for us, he’s got no loyalty, so he’ll throw over HYDRA as soon as the next big ticket comes along.”

Steve stared at the image, a piece of the puzzle slotting into place. He’d seen Barney before. “Halloween,” he blurted. “A couple years ago. That’s the man I saw fighting with Clint, the one in the cheap FBI suit.”

“Cheap, yes, but real. He used to work for them, too, but you can imagine how well that panned out. So you saw him.”

By the tone of her voice, Steve knew Nat had known it was Barney that night. “Yeah. I didn’t think anything about it at the time. Didn’t know who he was until he popped up with that HYDRA cell a month later.” He paused. “How much did Clint tell you about that?”

Natasha tilted her head slightly. “Everything. HYDRA set out to recapture their Asset, and Barney tried to pin the whole mess on Clint. Which more or less worked.”

Steve grimaced. Accusing Clint of being HYDRA hadn’t been his finest moment. It was difficult to deny all the redacted information in Clint’s files, and they’d gotten Steve to jump to conclusions knowing Steve would dig into Clint’s past and make the connections they insinuated. He and Clint managed to put that fiasco behind them and work to rebuild their friendship, but Steve still felt like an ass. “What was the fight about? The one on Halloween.”

“Barney wanted Clint’s help protecting a client. The client happened to be involved in a child sex-trafficking ring and instead of providing cover, Clint assassinated him, which cost Barney a very large pay day.” 

For all the secrets Natasha kept, she’d always been straightforward when confronted directly. It’s what Steve liked about her, and a sign of her trust in them. The puzzle set before Steve pieced itself together, revealing a story that ran deeper than the present circumstances. 

This was revenge, three years in the making.

“Barney saw us at the party that night,” Steve said. “He discovered we were friends with Clint. When Clint refused to help him, Barney set his sights on us.”

“Me,” Bucky corrected. “He sold me out. And when that didn’t take, he blamed the whole thing on Barton, knowing you’d dig into him and find his less than shiny record.”

Steve clenched his jaw. “And now he has Clint as bait.”

Natasha glanced at the screen. “One in a million chance I’d be with you when that postcard arrived. My idiot archer is trying to sacrifice himself.”

Bucky slid the rack back into the wall and took up his position at Steve’s side. “Why would he do that? That would mean he sent the postcard to the wrong people intentionally.”

“That was exactly his play,” Natasha said, a shade of worry crossing her face. “Clint is hardwired to protect his family, even if it means his death. He’ll take the hit to keep everyone he cares for safe.” 

Steve’s gut twisted. “What’s the plan? Extraction, obviously,” he said. Tony claimed the shield was on board, and it took Steve a moment to find it, matte black instead of the infamous red, white, and blue. Good. Steve didn’t feel particularly patriotic.

“Unfortunately, Clint is . . .weird about his brother. That need to protect extends to him as well. Barney is scum, but Clint refuses to let anyone kill him. He loves his brother as much as he hates him. This is a subdue and contain mission, not an execution.”

Bucky frowned. “How disappointing.”

“We need a plan,” Steve said, setting the shield in the holster on his back. It felt good, a familiar weight to accompany the job. “Do we think Barney has HYDRA backing him, or is this a personal vendetta?”

Natasha waved the info screen away and brought up an aerial map. They’d touch down in about fifteen minutes according to JARVIS’s count. “Considering he’s caught and held Clint for almost two weeks, I’d say he doesn’t have backup. He’s smug. And disappointingly smart. Since he forced Clint into giving him he details for the postcard, I’d assume he’s expecting company. What I don’t know is if he’s expecting me, the two of you, or some combination. What he’s done to Clint to force that information from him is more my concern.”

Steve read fear in her posture. Anyone else would see nonchalance, a woman setting out what she had to do and who she had to kill to complete her mission, but her fear for her friend stuck to the edges. Natasha and Clint had always been a matched set, like he and Bucky were, and the prospect of one without the other was unfathomable. Natasha had prepared herself for the worst.

“Guess he’s getting a bargain, then,” Bucky said, tone even.

“Bucky,” Steve said, voice low in warning.

His husband caught his gaze and held it. “If we’re gonna pull this off, she needs to know, Steve.”

Natasha waited, poised and quiet. Steve felt uneasy. It wasn't that he didn't trust Natasha, especially if Bucky did, but if things went sideways, Clint wouldn't be the only one in danger.

 

A sharp pain in his ear brought Clint back to consciousness, the hiss and crackle for his hearing aid loud against the oppressive silence. A familiar voice spoke at his side, but Clint failed to make out the words. He’d given up. It was a matter of time before his body got the memo. His arms had long since gone numb, his shoulders strained to the point of tearing; he couldn’t remember the last time they’d fed or watered him, not that it’d been enough to sustain him long. This was it. Maybe another day or so, but Clint Barton was not long for this world.

The sudden snap and agony of broken bones jarred him fully awake, and Barney—of course it was Barney—twisted the two fingers of his right hand back until a scream ripped itself from Clint’s chest. His voice grated in his throat, knives shredding the rest of his vocal chords. Leave it to Barney to beat Clint within an inch of his life, and then break his hand. He couldn’t have fired an arrow even he had managed to get down from the chains and find his gear, but breaking the fingers on his draw hand was an insult to his profession.

Back in the day, if an archer was captured, they severed his fingers. Clint would count himself lucky except what the fuck did it matter? 

Whatever Barney wanted didn't matter. Whatever he had to say didn't matter. What he decided to do with Clint’s body didn’t matter. Knowing his brother, Barney would leave him there, still hanging from the wall, until he rotted away to nothing. The older Barton wasn’t showy, so at least Clint took a little comfort in that his corpse wouldn’t be dragged through whatever shit town he was in. Barney wouldn’t crow. He’d take his cash and walk away. Clint wondered how much his life had been worth. 

And then he felt it: the lump in his throat, the sting of tears. The Barton boys had learned early not to cry, and if they did, not to make a sound. Not that Clint could manage much. But he forced his head up, trying to catch Barney’s eye. It took several tries, but he finally managed to control what remained of his voice.

“Did you ever love me? Even a little?” He swallowed thickly, choking on the words. “Did I ever matter to you, big brother?”

Barney’s expression softened. “Of course, you matter. You’re my baby brother.” He cupped a hand against Clint’s cheek; Clint flinched. Barney’s mouth twisted into a sneer. “I care about you and how much money you can net me. I love turning a profit. I love getting to spend quality time tearing you down. How could you think you don’t matter when I’m about to trade your life for everything I’ve ever wanted? Or your corpse,” he added. “Turns out HYDRA isn’t picky.”

He patted Clint’s cheek, just this side of a slap, tore the hearing aid out of Clint’s ear before backing away. Clint hung his head, hot tears burning behind his eyes. All he’d ever done was love his brother. He’d wanted to make Barney proud. But Barney hated him from the day their foster families started wanting Clint but not him. It didn’t matter than they were a set, that Clint never would have stayed if they didn’t take Barney. He’d run away with him, after all, but then the circus was the same.

Clint always chose Barney, even when Barney didn’t see it. All Clint wanted was his brother. 

Instead, the darkness and silence resumed. Clint let himself cry.


	3. Three

Steve hovered as Bucky closed his eyes, Natasha watching them both carefully. “It’s complicated,” Buck started.

“What isn’t?” she countered.

He nodded. “I’ve had episodes, on and off, since coming out of cryo. Clint caught me in one when he rescued me from Hydra that first time. Doc called them fugue states, but after that last time, I told her I wanted as much control as I could manage to take back. Problem was my dissociative amnesia requires a trigger.” Buck cast a glance at Steve. “Most of my trigger phrases were conditioned out, but one stuck. We couldn’t eliminate it, so we changed it.”

Steve looked ill, but his voice held steady. “I changed the phrase, we drilled the new on into place. Tested it inside and outside of the office. We wanted to make sure that if Buck couldn’t act under his own free will, that he knew who his order came from. 

Natasha nodded, a strange look on her face. “You and Steve made the right call.”

Buck shrugged. “The only call. Which means if need be Steve can put me under. I’ll follow his orders, and given what I remember about us, Natasha, I’ll likely follow yours.” Doc hadn’t been prepared to delved quite so far into Bucky’s neurological damage, but the resulting influx of memories had been both blessing and curse. He hadn’t wanted most of what surfaced and immediately shoved it into mental storage, but remember Natasha had been . . .well, not nice, but it fit the pieces of who they’d been together better into place.

“I’ll know you,” Bucky continued. “I’ll know Steve, and I’ll know Clint. Steve put me under in every situation short of combat we could think of. It’ll work if needed.”

“I fucking hate it,” Steve muttered.

Buck spared him a sympathetic look. “I know. And we have no way of telling whether there might be something else Barney can detonate in my head that he accessed through Hydra intel.” He moved over to one of the tables bolted to the wall and spread his hands, one of JARVIS’s control screens appearing between his palms. “He may have nothing. If Barney tries to put me under, I can fake it, but if there’s risk I’m actually put into Soldier Mode, Steve can step in as my commander.”

Steve leaned over Bucky’s right shoulder, gazing down at what he assumed was the warehouse floor plan. “Natasha, I take it you’ve dealt with Barney directly before. Are we expecting an ambush?”

“I doubt it. Barney’s biggest downfall other than constantly running his mouth is hubris. He believes he’s smart enough to outdo anyone,” she answered, taking Bucky’s left. “The postcard deal was designed to lure us in. Well, you two. Clint may believe he sent a false message, but Barney would be convinced he’s adding Captain America and the Winter Soldier to his Hydra trophy collection.”

Bucky rolled his eyes. “Great. He sounds like a ‘death maze’ kinda guy.”

“The question is, what does he think will trap us?” Steve asked. “We’re supersoldiers. Trip wires and net guns won’t cut it.”

“It’s likely Hydra still thinks I’m compromised,” Bucky said. “We can fake a fight well enough.”

Natasha shook her head. “You’re not going in together.”

Steve eyed her, the set of her jaw not welcoming arguments. Of the three of them, Nat had the most experience dealing with Barney. Clint was her person; she deserved to take point on the mission. “Okay. What’s your call?”

Natasha waved the blueprints away, the tension in her shoulders robbing grace from her motions. “We can’t be certain what shape Clint will be in when we find him, but I’m betting somewhere between extremely bad and immediate medical attention required.” She turned to Steve, a shade of anxiety in her eyes. “You’re strong enough and quick enough to get him out. James and I will walk through the front door. Barney’s expecting two soldiers, not two assassins.”

Beside her, Bucky smirked, holding up his metal hand for a fist bump. “Old school team up.”

Natasha returned the gesture, a little more fire behind her grin. “Barney isn’t aware that Soldier and I work well together. Just remember that as much as we’d like it to be, this is non-lethal mission. Incapacitate. Detain. But by all means, fantasize as much as you’d like.”

“Pardon me,” JARVIS announced, “we shall be arriving in within the next two minutes.” A drawer slid out from the wall in front of them, four sets of Stark’s in-ear comms sitting on a pad. “And a set for Agent Barton,” the AI explained.

“Excellent,” Steve said, pocketing the set for Clint before slipping his into place. Natasha and Bucky followed suit. “Where are we landing in proximity to the warehouse?”

A screen flashed into the air, the aerial view shifting to the street. “The building itself is offset from both the main highway and any local businesses or residences.”

“Oh, fuck me,” Bucky muttered, turning the image of the building a full 360 degrees. “She’s an abandoned auto plant. It is a death maze.”

“I’m afraid we haven’t the time, Sergeant,” JARVIS quipped. Bucky snorted. Steve suppressed his own laugh. “Historical records for the premise indicate a series of fire escapes along the side and several access doorways around back.”

“Copy. Set the jet down behind the building. We’ll radio when we’ve completed the extraction or if we change course,” Steve answered. “Have Tony keep the medbay on standby.”

“Of course, Captain.”

“James and I will head in first,” Natasha said. She slammed the magazine into her gun and holstered it before straightening her cuffs. “If there’s an ambush waiting, we’ll keep them occupied while you sneak in. Tell me when you have eyes on him.”

Steve nodded, adrenaline humming through his veins. He’d be lying if he said he didn’t miss this kind of work. Of course, Clint's life being endangered damped his spirits, but stepping back into the field felt like stretching a long disused muscle. He must have been eying the drop hatch because Bucky shoved a parachute bag into Steve’s chest, expression stern.

“Don’t you fucking think about it, Rogers.”

“What?” Steve said, blinking innocently.

Natasha rolled her eyes. “JARVIS, take us as close as you believe safe and we’ll hop out. Keep the engines running.”

“Of course, Agent Romanov. Sir and I both wish you recover Agent Barton quickly and safely.”

“We’ll do our best,” Steve said. He tossed the parachute aside, checked his own holster, and squared his shoulders toward the drop hatch. JARVIS set him down behind the factory, the collapsed overhang providing a measure of cover. Steve turned, right into Bucky’s arms, and a quick squeeze and a kiss later, he stepped out of the quinjet and landed in the gravel. Empty spray paint cans and garbage littered the ground, the walls surrounding him covered in graffiti and crumbling brick. Heart hammering against his ribs, Steve set his jaw and took off for the fire escape.

 

The stench of old oil, rot, and garbage assaulted them the minute Bucky and Natasha crossed into the factory. What Bucky managed to see of the floor was comprised of cracked concrete and broken tile. Why did the bad guys never choose anywhere nice to set up base? Not even nice; he’d settle for relatively clean.

Debris made stealth more difficult, of course. Glass sparkled amongst the stained paper, and aluminum cans dotted what Bucky assume had once been the show floor. The whole place echoed back into itself. Memories stirred in the back of his mind; covered floors also meant concealed traps. Natasha followed, equally on edge. Gaining the other side of the room did nothing to ease either of them.

“What is Barney’s style, Natalia?” Bucky asked in Russian, keeping his voice low. “What are we dealing with?”

She shook her head. “He’s loyal to whoever is paying the most, but when it comes to Clint, his tactics change. There’s no shortage of bad blood between them and Barney do whatever he feels necessary.”

Bucky nodded, his stomach sinking. “Be honest with me: how bad are you excepting this to be?”

Natasha glanced up at him. “If he’s still alive, I doubt it’ll be for long unless we get him out quick and clean. We might have an hour. Two if we’re lucky.”

Pressing back against the door frame, Buck checked the corridor before moving forward. All remained silence save the faint clink of Natasha brushing by an empty tin. “You are expecting a corpse.”

She never stopped moving, but the heaviness in the way she blinked betrayed her fear. “Yes. And if we find him dead, my promise is void. I’ll paint this place red.”

 

Five and a half minutes later, Bucky sighed, frustrated, and kicked a path through the building. The whole fucking thing was _empty_ ; not we-moved-out-in-a-hurry empty, but no-one’s-been-here-in-years empty. He was spoiling for a blood bath, not dust bunnies.

“This is the first time I’ve ever been bored on an assassination mission,” he complained. “Where the hell is everyone?”

Even Natasha’s edge had been dampened by aggravation. “Leave it to Barney to work alone.”

“He’s literally sitting in a empty warehouse? If I didn’t hate his fucking guts before, I’d definitely wanna sink a bullet into him now.”

Natasha stepped up beside him, gazing up into the corners of the room. “Barney likely set up shop in the back. JARVIS,” she asked, tapping her ear piece. “Which floor are we currently on?”

“The first,” the AI answered, his voice pinging though Bucky’s ear. “There is a basement below you, and a sub-basement that appears to be a single chamber. Access to the lowest level is impossible, but the basement is reachable through the staircase ahead and to your left.”

“If there’s no one else here, Barney has to have some kind of surveillance set up,” Natasha continue. “He’d need to know when you arrived, and more over, he’d like a place to watch his brother suffer while he relaxed.”

Bucky growled. He wanted to pincushion that motherfucker. “You see anything in here putting out an electrical signal?”

“Upstairs, to your right.”

“Fan-fucking-tastic,” Buck said, setting off. Natasha moved quickly beside him. It wasn’t long before the thin hum of electronics reverberated along his metal arm, growing stronger the further they went along the corridor. That was disconcerting. A fleeting thought of like attracting like flashed through his brain, leaving Bucky momentarily cold. The impulse grew stronger, the edges of the scar tissue stinging, a static buzz building in his skull the closer they came. Along with it came another flood of rage. Memories flickered in his brain, a broken film reel, and Bucky didn’t need to catch much to realize the majority did not belong to him. 

_No chair. Never again._

He’d been promised a Hydra cell to obliterate. 

Bucky settled for kicking down the only closed door on the hall, relishing the crash as it smashed into the concrete. Sparks lit up along his nerves. Computer banks lined the walls, covering the windows, and several towers occupied desks down the center of the room. The stifling air amplified the stench of debris, though this room appeared slightly cleaner than the others.

Natasha kicked a path to the closest terminal, brushing something off the keyboard before examining it. “How difficult is it to use the damn trash can by the door?” she muttered.

Bucky closed his eyes, hoping to stay the welling nausea. “You join Hydra because you’re an evil shitbag, not because you care about the environment. The dental plan is pretty great, though,” he added.

An inelegant snort sounded from his left as Nat clicked away at the keys, the monitors flashing to life around her. A moment later, the creeping pain drained from his body and the metal plates of his arm shifted back into place and settled. He hadn’t noticed they’d been raised.

“Homing frequency,” Natasha said. “Maintenance protocols. This is their command center, but they’ve all jumped ship. Last sign-in happened months ago.”

Drawing in a steady breath, Buck headed toward another bank, sadly no cleaner than the one Natasha claimed. The screens lit up for him, too, the red squidnazi logo front and center before it dissolved into meaningless code. Hacking this shit would be a piece of cake. “See if you can find any schematics” he said. “Barney might be in this hellhole unguarded, but that doesn’t mean he didn’t cook something up for us once we figure out his location.”

“I'm sure he has a secondary post either to monitor Clint or to binge watch Netflix between torture sessions.”

“You're absolutely certain I can't murder him?”

“Sadly, yes.”

Bucky growled. The screen before him flashed red as his hands moved almost of their own volition. A warm static fogged his thoughts as he typed in sequence and code he didn't remember learning. As the Soldier, he’d possessed access to Hydra’s dark-net files, and from the looks of it, Buck did, too. Hydra spent its time trying to cover its ass and rebuild, but without a host like SHIELD, they couldn't make much headway. New strategy, then. 

Natasha hummed. “There's another room up one level that's using power. Everything else in here is dead.”

“Sounds like our guy, then,” Buck answered. A file in the corner of the screen caught his eye, a familiar sensation ringing alarm bells in his brain. He couldn't claim surprise when the folder spit out a medical file for the Winter Soldier. Buck doubted they'd get over losing their greatest weapon, blah, blah, blah but as the image cycled through, Bucky's stomach dropped. 

He knew the bracing for his arm extended past the shoulder and partly down his spine, but the image before him showed the same dark coating on his ribs. Buck pressed a hand to his side; nothing felt different. The file date was before the Battle of the Potomac, which meant—

Bucky shook his head. Not now. He clicked through.

The file after was much, much worse.

The Cyrillic lettering read Recovery and Reprogramming, below which a diagram of his body accompanied Hydra’s plans for their missing soldier. Bucky went cold all over. In addition to upgrading the arm— _his_ arm—the technicians devised a series of metal modifications not unlike the metal coating on his ribs. He swallowed, bile rising in the back of his throat. The new attachments centered on his legs: on the left, a replacement kneecap, and on the right, a new metal limb that took out his knee and bit into what remained of his thigh. Alongside the image ran a list a features. The legs locked remotely. Hydra couldn’t risk an autonomous weapon.

“Holy shit,” Natasha whispered in disgust over his shoulder.

He moved to the next file, the white noise in his head flaring again. This was absolutely not to the time to glitch out. The new image on the screen was unmistakably Steve. Whatever scientists were left from Clint’s rampage weren’t fucking around; for Steve, they’d designed a shock collar to be fitted along his spine. Even Captain America couldn’t rip it out without risk of permanent damage, and if the electrical impulses failed to persuade him, well . . .there was always torturing Bucky.

Natasha took control of the mouse and Buck couldn’t decide whether to thank her or push her out of the way. The third file bore Clint’s figure, the head lined in blue. Buck caught sight of the word “tessaract” at the same time Natasha must have, the plastic mouse squeaking in her grip. The image changed to neurological model, highlighting the areas of the brain that controlled compulsion. The rest of the file held notes on the tessaract, mind control, and what Bucky could only guess might be another version of the serum.

“How did they get this?” Natasha hissed. “I deleted his files and the corrupted the backups when I dumped Hydra’s plans across the net.”

“Hydra hid for a long time. They may have put it together after Clint got caught up in their effort to recapture me.” Bucky shook his head. He felt sick to his bones. “Clint isn’t bait, he’s a bonus. Why have one Soldier when you can have three, especially when—“

“One was already brainwashed,” Nat concluded. She’d gone pale. “They’d keep him alive if this is their endgame.”

Bucky stood up, gaze fixed on the screen. “But how far have they already gotten?”

Natasha started shaking her head, paused, and then put her fist through the computer screen. The unit fell off the desk and shattered, black plastic pieces landing amongst the rest of the filth and debris. “They can’t—wouldn’t. They don’t have the equipment here. Barney isn’t a scientist; I’m willing to bet he gets payment upon delivery. Let’s go.”

She set off for the door, but Bucky found himself frozen, staring at the remains of the monitor. He’d spent seventy years in that hell, and the thought of Steve and Clint joining him for another deathless century left him feeling oily and rotten, a sour taste in his mouth. Fear hadn’t been an emotion he’d entertained, but . . .

“James, now,” Natasha called, voice sharp as glass.

He followed, a new spike of following in the wake of his obedience. Natasha was not his handler; she was his CO for this mission. His job was to have her back, and the time for cracking jokes had ended. Two years Hydra had spent forming this plan, with the help of Clint’s own brother. He shook his head again. “Who the fuck is this guy,” Bucky ground out, the edge of fear coloring his words, “and what the hell is Stevie walking into?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unfortunately, there won't be a chapter next week because I'm in the middle of moving house.


	4. Four

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: somewhat graphic depiction of torture/wounds. Homophobic language/slut shaming.

Cotton filled his skull and mouth, his lips cracked and split. Old iron had been all he’d tasted for days and now he missed it, along with the pain. Clint thought he’d read somewhere maybe that the first sense to go when you died was your hearing, but he’d been deaf on and off and on for most of his life—so much for that helpful tip. He’d lost the feeling in his arms, his hands. Couldn’t remember to how to use his neck or hold his head up. His dry tongue stuck to the roof of his dry mouth, too thick to fit properly which meant he couldn’t manage to swallow it and finally choke himself out. And in the endless, unbroken darkness, his heart beat too loud in his ears, pounding away, a furious little engine. Clint wondered if he’d notice when it stopped.

For a moment, he thought the darkness lifted, or shifted, something in the air moving. Barney hadn’t been by to torture him in a while. Hope fluttered in his chest. It made his gut clench, but that had always been the catch: he loved and hated his brother in equal measure. Maybe Barney would water him. Nah, Barney would hold his head up and nearly let him drown, but Clint wouldn’t mind. Maybe he’d even get tossed some stale bread crumbs. His brain failed to dredge up a memory of when he’d last eaten. Clint mustered up the remains of his willpower, trying to feel out the void around him. Opening his eye might be the last thing he’d be able to do. Dread spiked along his spine, sharp and agonizing. If the last thing he saw was that bright burning cherry tip in the dark . . .

The sob he couldn’t voice rattled his chest. Flakes of dried blood drifted across his face. Well, what was one more risk before his drawn out and excruciating death?

Lifting his eyelids felt like an act of God; he only managed one, but the void of nothingness had gone gray off to the side, one rectangle slightly lighter than the abyss around it, a darker shadow standing at the center. Nothing glowed. Clint tried to focus. Not Barney. The shape was wrong. And then the figure vanished. Awesome. Which stage of dying came with hallucinations?

Barney had probably given up. At least, Clint struggled to hang on to the possibility. He’d had Barney send the wrong message, after all. If no one came for him, if the trap never got baited, well—Clint had done his job right, after all. It wouldn’t break Barney’s heart to leave Clint like this, especially once he realized he’d been duped. A smile pulled at Clint's lips, not quite happening but present, like a ghost or a . . .

Whatever. Words. Didn’t matter.

Another pinpoint of illumination appeared beside him, thin strips of washed out light lessening the gloom. There had been windows, Clint thought, covered in layers of newspaper and rusted shut. Barney would have torn everything down in sheets, blinded Clint for the hell of it. He let his eye close, head hanging against his chest. He was alone in a room, chained to a wall.

The light flickered. Okay. Not alone? Clint managed to open his eye again and caught a glimpse of dark blue, black bands across a chest too wide to belong to his brother. Was that a scarf? He wanted to laugh, knowing if he could, he’d sound hysterical. Of all the futzing people to hallucinate, his brain conjured Battle Hipster Steve Rogers, complete with beard and fingerless leather gloves. At least he’d die laughing.

“Steve” paused to stare at him, and Clint felt a flush of gladness that the real Steve wouldn’t see the horror show Barney’d made of him. No, Steve would remember him as a happy-go-lucky disaster, or like that sketch he'd had drawn at the coffee shop last year. Clint could live with that. Well, be content. He’d miss Steve. And Buck. Nat, Lucky, Kate. Tony. He’d built a family, and he hoped they’d miss him as much as he’d miss them. 

Natasha would forgive him, one day. It hurt now, and Nat would hurt for years after she recovered him. After she buried him. Lucky would look after her. Kate would carry on being Hawkeye. They wouldn’t forget him. They loved him. He drifted, dreaming of summer rooftop barbecues and playing in the park. Watching stupid movies with Steve and Buck. Dinner dates with Nat. Clint let his body relax. There were worse ways to go, and once the film reel of memories ended, the lights would go out and the show would end. Might as well enjoy it while it lasted.

 

Steve half-listened to Bucky and Natasha as they’d picked their way through the front of the building. He’d found much the same: piles of garbage in the corners, scattered across the floor, and no sign that anyone had set foot in the building in years. A trail of questionably fresher discarded food led Steve deeper into what he assumed once housed the automotive assembly. Away from the windows, the room stood shrouded in gray, uneven light. He kept his scarf around his mouth and nose, filtering out the stench. A small door had been set off to the side; the hinges were orange with rust, but the lock and deadbolt gleamed silver. 

“Nat, Buck, I think I found it,” Steve whispered.

“We’re on our way,” Nat answered. “Be careful.”

Buck’s voice filtered through the comm. “We don’t have eyes on Barney and we’re not sure if he has eyes on you. Keep a low profile.”

Steve broke the door lock before snapping the deadbolt in half. “You two never let me have any fun.”

Unfortunately, his plan to slip in quietly failed. The rusted hinges shrieked and the door came fully away in Steve’s hand. He caught it before it hit the floor, propping against the wall and hoping he hadn’t made any noticeable commotion. So much for low profile. 

Steve stepped into the doorway and nearly recoiled, the rancid smell of rotting garbage and human waste unbearable despite Tony’s fancy filter fiber scarf. He opened his eyes and immediately became ill for a different reason.

On the far side of the room, Clint hung suspended from shackles bolted into the wall, his feet barely scraping the ground. Bile rose in Steve’s throat, bitter and hot; dried blood stained what little remained of Clint’s shirt, visible lacerations across his body half-healed, raw and scabbing over. The smell of infection hung thick in the air. Bits of cloth stuck into the wounds, yellowing and filthy. Clint arms, suspended over his head, strained against the metal around his wrists. Even at this distant, Steve saw the cracked, red skin, and the way Clint’s ribs were beginning to show along his sides matched the thinness in his face. 

Natasha had said Clint was supposed to be on mission for two weeks; how long had Barney had him to leave Clint in this state?

Clint’s mouth hung open, his lips split and bloodied. He didn’t stir at all. From what little Steve could see of his face, Clint’s eyes appeared glassy. He swallowed, the cold shock of fear spurring him forward. Peeling the paper off the windows brought weak light into the darkness, and Steve felt something in him release at the shallow rise and fall of Clint’s chest. He wasn’t dead yet, but Steve didn’t have much time.

He clenched his fists and forced himself to release them. His job was getting Clint out and keeping him safe, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t having his own revenge fantasies about tearing the older Barton apart. Natasha and Bucky would handle things on that end, and Steve quashed the jealousy flaring in his chest. Bucky loved him, which meant he’d save some of the murdering for his husband. Clint first, justifiable homicide after.

A door on the other side of the room burst off its hinges and landed in the debris, followed by a redhead in Hydra black, the red emblem on his shoulder, bow in hand and quiver on his back. The clatter of bullets and the whir of machinery heralded Buck and Nat’s arrival. Steve had never seen them fight together (that footage wasn’t part of the Data Dump or anything he’d come across during his hunt for the Winter Soldier), but they moved seamlessly, not in the way Bucky fought with Steve—as extensions of one another—but in the manner of a well-rehearsed ballet, each step and turn in the choreography rehearsed, perfected, and expertly executed.

“I hate this guy,” Bucky said, throwing a knife around Natasha as she arched backward, firing her gun.

“So does everyone who meets him,” she quipped.

Steve waited, slinking back. Barney had to know where Buck went, Steve would follow, and he felt certain Barney clocked him the second he slid through the door. There was nothing to hide behind or obstruct Barney’s view should he turn and decide to give Steve his attention, but Steve could do the next best thing: completely ignore Barney. He wouldn’t be able to rip open the shackles themselves without making noise, but he could bend the links holding them, free Clint’s feet first, then work on his wrists. Steve scanned over Clint again, noticing now the first two fingers on his right hand had been broken. Fuck.

“And you haven’t assassinated him yet, why?” Bucky asked, sounding bored as he deflected a bullet off his palm.

Natasha shrugged. “Clint asked me not to. Said ‘please’ and everything. We have to take him alive.”

Bucky groaned. “Does he have to keep all his original parts? Because I—“

“Yes, James. No dismemberment.”

Steve stared as Bucky turned, extended his metal hand, a plucked an arrow out of the air beside Natasha’s head with all the grace of a caress. Time slowed as a lock of red hair split from the rest and draped over her shoulder. 

“You used to be fun,” Bucky answered, stepping behind her and slinging the arrow back at Barney a moment before it exploded. Steve knew damn well Bucky was his, with or without that ring on his finger, but watching the two of them fight and banter felt like witnessing an act of intimacy. He shook himself and darted for the shadows, ignoring the cries of pain and the blood splatter where Natasha and Bucky continued the fight.

Freeing Clint’s legs proved easy. He didn’t stir, head hanging and eyes closed, while Steve removed the chains. Clint came round as Steve pried the metal links apart to free his arms; his eyes were unfocused and glassy, not tracking Steve’s movement. It wasn’t until Steve touched Clint’s left arm, gently lowering it to his side, that Clint tried to look up at him. Steve cupped his hand against Clint’s cheek, fishing around in his pocket with the other until he found one of the comms JARVIS had given him. He set it on low and carefully slipped it into place.

He moved the scarf away from his mouth. “Hey, pal. Hang tight. We’re gonna get you outta here.”

Clint shook his head, flexing his fingers as he tried to move his arm. If Steve had to guess, and he didn’t have to guess hard, Clint had been suspended for days. Restoring the circulation was gonna hurt like a motherfucker, and Steve needed to get Clint’s other arm down before that happened, but when he moved, Clint whimpered, his voice as raw as the rest of him, and he reached out for Steve.

Steve let Clint touch his face, hesitantly at first, a bit of Clint’s glassy expression vanishing. The archer furrowed his brow and tried to hold on to him, and Steve stepped closer into an awkward half-hug, tucking Clint’s face against his neck and settling his hand around the back of Clint’s neck. Clint went boneless, drawing in a deep breath and softening into the spaces against Steve as Steve tried to lift him, taking a bit of the weight off Clint’s still restrained arm for a moment. Clint nuzzled closer; his skin felt cold and clammy against Steve’s neck.

Steve wasn’t sure what all the quinjet had for medical supplies, but Clint needed an IV, blankets, antiseptic, and something to splint his broken fingers. “I have to set you down, Clint. I know you can’t stand, but I need you to try so I can get your other arm free, okay?” 

Clint whimpered again. Steve hushed him, rubbing small circles against Clint’s back. Get Clint down, make a run back to quinjet. They needed to be quick. 

The crash and scrape of metal cut through their little bubble of isolation as Bucky hit the ground and slid, sparks lighting from his metal fingertips as he slowed his momentum. Unfortunately, that put Bucky directly in front of Steve, placing Steve directly in Barney’s line of sight.

The older Barton started at his younger brother, his eyes wide and dark, a cruel twist to his mouth. “How fucking pathetic,” he spat.

Clint stiffened and tried pushing Steve away, putting himself between Steve and Barney. Gently, Steve rested a hand against Clint’s chest, his other arm still supporting the archer. He couldn’t risk Clint harming himself more.

Barney sneered. “The famous pain in the ass Clint Barton, world’s greatest marksman, the infamous Hawkeye, and nothing more than a goddamn slut. You’ve always been a disaster, little brother, but this?” he said, waving a hand at Steve. “This takes the fucking cake. And a married man, huh? Well, figures you’d play on the same team considering Cap likes dick as much as you do.”

Steve tightened his grip and imagined slamming Barney's face into the wall. Clint shook, clenching his undamaged hand into a fist. Steve held him back. “Don’t. Don’t let him get to you. You can’t fight him like this.”

Barney shook his head. “You'll spread your legs for anyone, won’t you? And here’s Captain Cocksucker himself. Does your tin man know you’ve gone balls-deep in our whore archer? Fuck, he’s probably in on it, too. You love it, don’t you, little brother? Getting battered around and served all the dick you—“

The clatter of metal plates was the only warning before Bucky closed his fist and backhanded Barney hard enough to send him into the wall. Blood stained his knuckles, bright and fresh compared to the drying stains on his uniform. Steve smirked.

Barney chuckled from the rubble, spitting out a broken tooth and wiping the blood from his mouth with the back of his hand. Bucky was on him in a heartbeat, flesh hand around Barney’s throat, the metal hand prying his mouth open.

Clint choked on his words, looking at Steve in desperation, hitting his shoulder to get his attention. He half-signed 'stop him' at the same time Natasha called out, “James, stop. We take him alive.”

“He can live without his lower jaw,” Bucky snarled, gripping harder. Steve heard bone creak.

“You cannot dismember him, James. I know it’s tempting, trust me, but you have to put him down. Look at what you’re doing. You’re upsetting Clint.”

Bucky made no move to release the other Barton. “Then I’ll tear out his tongue.”

“Buck, stop,” Steve called. Bucky turned to him, gaze cold and vicious. Steve tried at once to soothe Clint and use him as leverage against Bucky’s rage. The archer trembled in his arms, still making broken noises. Honestly, Steve would be fine strapping Barney to a chair and pulling his teeth out one by one with a pair of rusty pliers he’d dragged through a back alley and dipped into a sewer, but Clint—for whatever ungodly reason—didn’t want Barney to die. Especially not in front of him. If Natasha hadn’t secretly assassinated the fucker yet, then Bucky wouldn’t get to either.

The look Bucky leveled at Steve shifted between rage and defiance, and for a moment Steve saw the Soldier staring back at him. He clenched his jaw, squaring his shoulders. “Put him down,” Steve ordered. “Now.”

After a moment, Bucky wrapped his metal hand around the back of Barney’s neck and threw him into the floor before retreating. Natasha stepped between them as Barney sucked in air, wheezing and sputtering from the damage to his throat. Steve turned back to Clint, debating how best to break the chain without jarring Clint’s broken fingers or his damaged shoulder. Natasha could handle whatever came next.

Barney pushed himself up, a smug laugh filtering in between the sound of shifting rubble. “Must be nice having a weapon like that on your side,” he said, inclining his head toward Bucky. “Whaddya say we mix things up a bit?” 

He extended his arm, some sort of remote in his hand, and pressed the button. A familiar voice filled the room, speaking in Russian, and Bucky’s eyes went wide in horrified recognition. Steve didn’t understand what the voice said, but he knew without a doubt it belonged to Alexander Pierce. Hearing it made Steve wish he could be the one to kill him this time. Pierce, Barney, both.

Bucky clamped his hands over his ears, gritting his teeth. He may not know Russian, but Steve could recognize Bucky’s trigger words; Pierce’s voice called out something different. Not a list, but a sing-song cadence. The scream that tore itself from Bucky’s throat lodged in Steve’s chest, rekindling the knot of fear which had been dormant for months.

He watched the metal plates slide and re-calibrate with Clint trembling beside him, pushing at Steve’s arm to make him move. Natasha reached out for Bucky. The plates stopped as he fell silent. Slowly, Bucky uncurled, cocking his shoulder back with mechanical precision, expression blank. Steve couldn’t have said either way whether this was Buck acting, or something much worse.

A nasty grin spread over Barney’s face, confident and grotesque. “Soldier,” he said, and Bucky’s vacant gaze turned to him. “Take out the Widow.”


	5. Five

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> TW: Some blood, some gore

Buck moved quick, Natasha ducking beneath his arm, but he caught his right fist in her hair, pulling her in. She twisted, kicking him in the face as she reached for her knives. They’d rehearsed some version of this game on the quinjet; Steve quashed his fear, trusting to their plan.

“James, listen to me. You know me. We’re a team.” They danced around each other, trading blows, evenly matched. “I’m asking you to back down, Soldat.” Bucky turned, gripping Natasha’s arm and throwing her over his shoulder and onto the ground. She sighed, pushing herself back. “Okay, we’re doing this,” she muttered. “Just like the Red Room.”

Steve disentangled himself from Clint and reached for the remaining chain when an arrow sliced open the back of his hand, lodging into the wall. He stepped away, placing himself between Clint and his brother. “You don’t want to do this,” Steve warned. He'd left his shield propped against the wall, but a gun would get the job done just as well.

“Oh, I think I do,” Barney answered, releasing another bolt. Steve caught it and threw it to back, doing the same to the next three Barney fired. If he didn’t move, Clint would wind up collateral damage. Steve charged, and Barney leapt away in an arc, leaving Steve to skid into empty space. Fucking carnies.

A strangled noise sounded behind him; Clint pulled at his restraints, eyes fixed on Natasha. She struggled on the floor, one arm wrapped around her ribs. Bucky reached for her, but Barney intercepted.

“Enough, Soldier. It seems your Captain wants to play now. Leave him alive, he’s worth more than the Widow,” Barney ordered. 

Bucky lifted Natasha’s head by her hair and slammed her face into the ground before stalking toward Steve. Steve backed away as Barney smirked at his little brother. “This outta be fun for you.”

Clint whimpered, gaze darting between Barney and Nat. She didn’t move from her sprawl on the concrete.

“Bucky,” Steve said, voice firm. “I don’t wanna fight you. You can do this. You can resist.”

He advanced, unsheathing a knife from his belt. Flashbacks to the highway in DC flooded Steve’s mind; they’d practiced this, too, and even then Steve had anticipated every move the Soldier made. He could do it again. Only this time, Steve was going to lose.

The fight went off perfectly, Steve constantly on the defensive. Of course, everyone know Steve’s weakness was Bucky. No one would question his desire not to harm him, even at cost to himself. And Buck didn’t hold back, his knife cutting through Steve suit, across his cheek, driving down into his flank. Well, sort of. It would look that way to Barney. 

Steve disarmed him, but without the knife, there was still the metal arm. He deadlocked them, voice pleading. “Please, Buck, I know you’re in there. You can hear me. You can fight this. Pierce is dead. No one owns you.”

Bucky backhanded him, grabbed Steve’s right arm, twisted it behind his back and drove him into the ground. Steve hit the floor, hard. He struggled to get up, groaning as he watched Bucky look to Barney for further instructions. To his credit, Bucky didn’t flinch or snap Barney’s arm off when the older Barton patted his shoulder. 

Of all things, Barney offered him a cigarette.

“Well done. Take one. You deserve it.” Bucky did as told, putting the cigarette between his lips and waiting for Barney to light it. He did. “Smoke a little. Enjoy.”

Bucky hadn’t smoked since the war—even then he’d hated it, distraction though it was—but he nevertheless puffed out a perfect smoke ring before taking another drag.

Barney whistled as he made his way over to Steve and Natasha. Nat lashed out with one of her stingers; Barney kicked her in the chest. She gasped, falling back. “I fucking hate spiders. You can blame yourself for this one, Red. Soldier,” he called, gesturing toward Clint. “Burn him. Don’t stop until the cigarette is down to the filter.”

Steve glanced up to find Clint scrambling at the chain, trying to pull his hand through the shackle in blind panic as Bucky advanced. He wished he could tell Clint that Bucky wasn’t going to harm him. Natasha crouched beside Steve, motioning him to get ready. Steve would take Barney out while his back was turned, and Natasha would get Clint. But Clint’s panic worsened the closer Bucky got. He reached the end of his short tether and desperately yanked his wrist against the cuff. His broken voice pleaded with the Soldier to stop. Steve saw the blood run down Clint’s forearm; he was bound to break his wrist or his hand. Fuck, they had to move now.

Despite his shredded vocal cords, Clint tried harder. “No, please. Buck, Soldier, you know me, please. Barney, please, no no no no no,” he cried. Steve got to his feet as Clint flinched away, squeezing his eyes shut in expectation of pain as Bucky’s hand gripped the chain.

Focusing on Barney, Steve launched himself forward, hooking his arm around Barney’s neck. Barney drove his elbow into Steve’s stomach, slamming his other fist into Steve’s jaw. Steve reeled backward. Natasha had obviously felt optimistic about taking this fucker alive, but she’d underestimated just had badly Steve wanted him dead. Barney stood in the middle of the floor, waiting for Steve to try again. Good. He fucking loved an old fashioned beat down.

The wicked grin that spread across Steve’s face held nothing but malice. If Barney still expected the sainted Captain America . . . Steve palmed one of the knives he’d taken off Bucky and imagined the satisfying slide of jamming it between Barney’s ribs. It wouldn’t kill him, but it’d hurt like a bitch. Hell, bashing Barney’s face into the floor would be pretty great, too. Being nonlethal didn’t mean Steve couldn’t have fun.

Natasha skirted her way around Bucky, keeping him away from Clint, and Steve let himself believe they all might to go home sooner rather than later. He’d caught Barney by the back of his neck, slashing the blade across Barney’s ribs, but the snake turned and slammed something into Steve’s face, whatever Barney had palmed bursting on contact. Son of bitch needed to do worse if—

Smoke billowed around his head, one moment benign, the next acidic and searing Steve’s face and hands. He gasped, the involuntary response drawing the gas (it had to be gas) into his lungs, toxic and agonizing. Blinded, Steve took a swing, wiping at his face with his other hand as the poison settled into his chest, burning from in the inside out. His lungs seized.

Steve kept himself upright through sheer force of will. If nothing else, he remained the most goddamn stubborn asshole on the planet, and he wasn’t about to lose that title to watering eyes and a sore throat. His next punch missed, but he caught the whirr of Bucky’s metal arm a second before he heard Barney cry out in pain. He wished the blow had shattered Barney’s skull, but no such luck; Steve would have to settle with Barney getting the wind knocked out of him. Irony at its fucking finest. But why stop there? Maybe Steve couldn’t land a blow with his fist, but if Barney Barton wanted a dirty fight, Steve would damn well deliver.

Beside him, Bucky rolled his shoulder, the metal arm recalibrating as he took Barney on alone. Steve loved that arm almost as much as he loved the man attached to it, and right now, Bucky stood with one foot planted in Soldier Mode and destruction in his eyes. When it came to Steve, Buck had always been willing to fuck someone up to protect him. Once they’d taken Barney down and Steve could breathe properly again, he planned to make that man kiss him senseless.

Unfortunately, the more Steve fought, the stronger whatever he’d inhaled became, and even all the rage and fury in the world couldn’t stop his lungs from stalling. Fighting for air felt horrifically familiar, and the longer he resisted, the worst he felt. One moment he was scalding hot and the next, freezing cold. Then the nausea came, rolling over him in waves, leaving him dizzy and reeling. He clenched his jaw. Never in his life had Steve let illness hold him back, and he sure as hell wouldn’t let it win now.

Steve turned quickly, catching Barney in the ribs with his fist as Bucky struck him from behind. He caught a glimpse of Natasha on the floor holding Clint, now freed from the restraints and switching between touching Nat’s face and gripping her arms before Steve’s vision darkened. Shit. He staggered backward, hand pressed to his chest, as Buck continued his assault. Barney had gotten hold of his bow again, firing arrows at close range as he tried to put distance between himself and Bucky. Steve swallowed against the rising sickness and started back in, but no sooner had he stepped forward than his chest shook, the first cough racking him so hard, his knees buckled.

Bucky‘s attention snapped to him the moment Steve’s knees hit the ground. Barney took the advantage. The first arrow went straight through Bucky’s right shin, the tip of the arrowhead barely sticking out the other side. Steve watched from his hands and knees as Bucky switched into full Soldier mode on his own, the transition seamless and terrifying. He deflected the next two arrows, drawing his gun and aiming for Barney’s hands. Barney slipped behind a pillar. Buck ceased fire, turning enough to look Steve over. Steve waved him away, breathing shallowly in the hope of avoiding another coughing fit. 

The tension in the room changed the minute the second arrow pierced Bucky’s left shoulder, driving through scar tissue and strained muscle. Buck glanced down, eyebrow arched, and Steve wondered why Barney would pass up the opportunity to take down the Winter Soldier permanently. 

Much as he wanted it to be true, Barney wasn’t an idiot, but now it wasn’t Bucky protecting Steve. Barney should have known.

The Soldier wouldn’t halt until he’d completed his mission.

Steve didn’t have time to enjoy his blood-soaked vengeance daydreams; when Solider stepped forward, the sound of snapping bone filled the room. The arrowheads opened, splintering muscle, flesh, and bone like a Pear of Anguish. Fragments tore though Bucky’s leg, blood soaking through his tac pants and splattering the ground as he fell, his bared teeth giving way to a scream. Steve struggled to get to his feet. He felt like he’d swallowed barbed wire, a vice around his chest, each breath coming with more difficulty than the last.

Across the room, Barney grinned, and Steve wanted nothing more than to pound that smug son of a bitch into a bloody pulp. Given his current incapacitation, Steve unwilling waited, turning instead to determining tactical advantages. There weren't many: Natasha couldn’t physically remove Clint from the room, Clint couldn’t leave under his own power, Bucky’s leg was shattered and the metal arm damaged, and Steve couldn’t draw in enough air to sustain combat. Natasha could fight, but someone had to defend Clint. She’d never leave him vulnerable.

Barney drew another arrow from his quiver, stepping past the downed Soldier to take aim at Natasha. Clint tried to twist himself in front of her, but Natasha held him firm, one hand brushing the butt of her gun. “Three down. It’s you and me, Widow.” 

It didn’t make any fucking sense, Steve decided. Barney had held his brother hostage, torturing him and baiting the trap for his rescue party. Sure, okay. But Steve wasn’t asphyxiated or drowning in his own blood (mistake one), Barney hadn’t gone for the femoral artery or even the jugular when he’d shot down the Soldier (mistake two), and now, instead of taking Natasha out, he decided to have a chat. They were down, but not out and at least he and Buck could heal. Steve rapidly reevaluated his earlier assessment on Barney’s intelligence. If he and Buck were still conscious, handing them over to HYDRA wouldn’t be easy.

Natasha didn’t bat an eye as Barney continued. “Not only do I get a substantial reward for returning the Asset to its handlers, but I’ll get a bonus for throwing in Captain America. I’m sure they’ll be delighted to take you off my hands, too.” Barney trained his arrow on her, still grinning. 

She cupped her hand to Clint’s cheek and turned his head, pressing his face into her neck. Her voice remained calm, quiet, and steady. “I wouldn’t celebrate just yet.”

Steve’s pulse ratcheted higher and it had nothing to do with his fever. Behind Barney, Soldier pushed himself up, getting his good leg beneath him. A low, almost mechanical rumbling floated through the air—the sound of Soldier laughing. Like a goddamn nightmare, he stood, cracking his broken leg back into place and fixing his sights on Barney. The grind of bone on bone turned Steve’s stomach, and Steve drew in a breath to call out but choked on the words. 

Barney spun, firing his arrow. Soldier caught it, snapping it in half as he advanced, faster than anyone in that condition should be able to move. Gritting his teeth, Barney fired again, and this time Soldier drew his gun, shot the arrow off course, and then put a bullet through Barney’s knee before repositioning the gun at Barney’s head.

Steve caught a blur of motion from the corner of his eye, but couldn’t suck in enough air to yell, “Wait!” 

Soldier twiched his arm and growled, the bullet meant for Barney’s skull going straight through Clint’s shoulder instead. Somehow, the archer had managed to get away from Natasha and place himself between his brother and his friend. Clint staggered, pressing his hand against the wound. What the hell was he doing? Another coughing fit rattled Steve’s chest, what little breath he had wheezing out of him. Clint took a bullet for the asshole who’d been gleefully tormenting them, and from the way he continued to block the elder Barton, Clint would willingly take more.

Soldier snapped an order in Russian that Steve could only guess roughly translated to, ‘Get the fuck out of my way.' Clint shook his head. Given Soldier had once assassinated a target through one of people in this room, Steve didn’t know what kept Soldier from punching another hole through Clint, but he felt grateful for it.

Until Soldier advanced. 

Clint flinched back but didn’t move away from Barney. The other Barton stared at his brother in bewilderment, pointedly staying behind him on the floor. Soldier wouldn’t be able to get a clean shot. He stopped, alarmingly close to Clint. “Move.”

“No,” Clint answered, forcing the words out. “Stand down.”

Soldier leaned in, voice soft. “I don’t take orders from you.” The metallic echo of gun’s hammer clicking into place filled the silence. Soldier stared Clint down, setting the muzzle of the gun against Clint’s hip. The bullet would tear through him and slam into Barney’s skull at that angle. “I have no handler. Move.”

Clint swallowed, eyes pleading. “Please, Buck.”

“You do this, Solider, and he won’t survive,” Natasha said, standing. “He’s too badly injured to sustain another wound.” Her voice echoed in Steve’s ear piece. “JARVIS, we need an extraction, immediately.”

Steve managed to gain his feet. He wished he’d brought the damn shield; Clint stood in the direct line of danger and unless Soldier backed down, there was no way this ended well. He hadn’t fired, so Steve held out hope. Soldier stared at Clint a moment longer, then lowered his gun. 

Behind them, Barney moved, a nasty grin curving his face as he spat something in Russian. Bucky’s head dropped before straightening up. Barney spoke again; Buck dropped the gun, raising his hands to his face. They came away bloodied. Steve started forward as Natasha did the same. Clint paled. Barney snarled something else that ended in a scream as Natasha struck him with her stingers, skirting around to clamp her palms over Bucky’s ears. 

Buck swayed on his feet, Nat speaking to him quickly in Russian. Steve pushed himself harder, desperate to reach Bucky’s side. He didn’t get far before his vision slipped out of focus. Someone caught him and held him upright, pulling him in. Steve would recognize the feeling of Bucky’s arms anywhere, but he'd been on the other side of the room and . . . He rested his head on Bucky’s shoulder. The sound of rope being tied registered somewhere behind him. Steve could steal a moment, a post-battle breath.

When he managed to glance up, he saw the thin trail of blood tracing it’s way down Bucky’s ear, another running from his nose and smeared across his cheek. His gray eyes had gone glassy, but then they turned to him and Buck pressed his right hand to Steve’s forehead. Steve failed to hear Bucky’s words over the pounding of his pulse. He wanted to lay down; his hands shook with cold.

Then Bucky’s hands were on him, turning Steve to face him. Barney was bound and unconscious, Natasha keeping a firm grip on Clint, who purposely kept his eyes on Bucky.

“Agents, Captain, Sergeant, the quinjet is ready; medical is waiting at the Tower for intake,” JARVIS said, voice echoing through Steve’s ear piece. “Might I suggest we hurry?”

It took Steve a full fifteen seconds to realize Bucky was speaking to him. “What?”

“Can you make it to the jet on your own?” he asked again. Buck’s face had grayed, the strain obvious on his brow. His voice sounded wrong.

“Yeah, I think so. . . But you can’t. You’re leg,” Steve answered. How the fuck could he have forgotten? “Why the fuck were you—“ He clawed into Bucky’s shoulders, coughing so hard his head ached. 

“Both of you go,” Natasha ordered. “Steve, lay down. James, do not fall asleep. I’ve got Clint. I’ll come back for the other one.”

Steve dredged up the last of his willpower and helped Buck out of the room and onto the fire escape. The quinjet waited for them and Steve got them both inside. Nat followed, setting Clint gently on the makeshift pallet with a strict warning that he was not allowed to rest before heading back into the building. Clint’s gaze only left Buck when Natasha started swearing, loudly, before running back into the quinjet.

“JARVIS, how quickly can you get us home?” she asked.

“Twenty-five minutes, provided the wind speed is on our side.”

“Make it fifteen and patch me through the Wilson. I need him to help me place an IV for Clint. Have the Tower ready to intake Agent Barton and Sergeant Barnes immediately. Captain Rogers needs to be sent to decontamination and quarantine.”

Steve gripped Bucky’s hand, his head pillowed on Bucky’s lap. Buck felt so warm and all Steve wanted was to sleep. He didn’t stay awake long enough to hear Sam pick up the line.


	6. Six

Bucky swayed as the quinjet shot toward the Tower. The edges of his vision started going white, the will to stay awake rapidly fading. Whatever static had sounded in his head had long since stopped, his whirring, disjointed thoughts given way to silence. His mission boiled down to keeping upright, answering whatever questions the Widow asked, and keeping his hand moving against Steve’s hair. Steve’s fever had risen drastically, causing him to strip down to his white tank, his breathing coming in labored sips and swallows no matter how Bucky adjusted him or his oxygen mask. Right now, the other man lay propped against his chest, head lolling against Bucky’s wounded metal shoulder. 

The urge to get up and move struck him. Relocating Steve might wake him, but he had to take the risk. Bucky gently lowered him onto the bench they occupied, propping Steve’s head up with his discarded scarf and jacket. Getting his feet under him, Bucky swayed again. He felt the blood drain from his face.

“James,” Natasha said, not looking way from Clint. He’d collapsed the second she said he could, and with Sam’s help, Natasha placed an IV and settled the oxygen mask over Clint’s mouth and nose. Bucky didn’t acknowledge her; he walked to the end of the jet and back. He didn’t feel any better. It barely registered that he shouldn't be _able_ to walk.

“James,” she repeated. “You need to sit down and keep still. I can’t be the only one left here.”

Bucky glanced over at Clint, still and pale, and then Steve, flushed and gasping. Natasha was the only one of them unscathed. The whiteness lingered, encroaching. He couldn’t hold it off much longer. “JARVIS,” he asked, and he twitched at the rough, disused quality of his voice. Another time, another place. “How much longer?”

“Estimated arrival in five minutes, Sergeant.”

Bucky nodded slowly, took a step forward, and the whole quinjet slid out from under him. His metal arm shot out, seeking purchase against the wall, but the seam of his arm gave. A warm trickle ran down the side of his head, another from his nose. He licked his lip and tasted blood. Oh shit.

He tried again, the jet spinning away a second time. Buck landed hard on his knees. The murmur at his ear resolved itself into Natasha’s voice, but other than the tone, he failed to distinguish anything she said. Clint’s eyes were open and focused on him, blind panic on his already drawn face.

Stay upright. Stay awake. He could do anything for five minutes. Pushing back to his feet, Bucky slowly moved back to his bench, kneeling beside Steve. Thankfully, he'd remained asleep. Buck shifted Steve’s bangs away from his forehead and pressed a kiss to the overheated skin. The roof of the jet swam before his eyes. A flash of red darted above him and Bucky realized he was on his back. His whole body felt heavy. Natasha’s face appeared over his; he assumed it was Nat. Bright red hair against stark white, a red mouth shaping words Bucky couldn’t read before the whiteness overtook everything. And then the world went black.

 

 

“What happened?”

Steve woke as the bed shook, kicking the nausea back into gear. Did anyone get the plates off the dairy van that hit him?

“. . .hit him with some kind of gas,” a woman said, her voice familiar.

His head lulled. So hot. Groaning, he tried to kick the blanket off, but his legs didn’t move. A weight sat on his chest, and the moment Steve realized it, his lungs seized. Jerking upright, he struggled to get enough air between hacking coughs, feeling the pin-prickling sensation across his skin. A sharp sting at his arm, and suddenly Steve felt all floaty. His breath still wheezed out of him, but that was okay. What else was new? Buck would make it better. Bring him soup. Prop him up with their worn out pillows.

Buck should be home from work soon. Yeah. Maybe a bath and then pillows and soup. Buck made the best chicken soup in the boroughs. Steve's skin was on fire.

Cool air gusted over him. Hmmm, nice breeze. Steve made a note to remind Buck to close the windows later. He'd catch cold and nothing good happed after that. Voices buffeted around him; the walls had always been paper thin, but the street noise sounded like it was beside his head. Maybe he should close the window.

Steve cracked his eyes open, the corridor rushing past him. Hospital? He must be real sick if Buck brought him in. They definitely couldn’t afford this. The nurse’s uniform didn’t look familiar. Buck should be nearby. He wouldn’t let him come alone. Steve twitched his fingers, but no one took his hand. 

He opened his eyes again. A second gurney rolled along beside his. The man’s blond hair was matted with blood, his shirt gone, and his shoulder and chest covered in wounds. The sight of him made Steve’s brain itch; he knew him. Somehow.

The nurse in charge of the other gurney sped him into a different hall. A second nurse followed immediately behind, and this time Steve’s stomach dropped. Bucky was laid out, his mouth open as a nurse pushed air into his lungs. It hit Steve in a flash, the fight, the gas, Clint broken and bloody, Barney triggering some sort of reaction in Bucky. He opened his mouth but his tongue didn’t work, a slurry of words scratching out of his throat.

“Relax, Captain Rogers, we’re getting you to medical right away. We’ll bring you up to date once we figure out what happened to you.”

He whimpered, craning his head back to look for Bucky. He’d been pale, his lips gray, and—

The nurse placed a hand gently on his cheek and turned his head. “Sergeant Barnes is being taken care of, I promise.”

Another sting at his arm and a minute later his thoughts went foggy again, but the taste of worry and fear lingered in his dreams.

 

 

A soft caress on his left hand dragged Clint out of his dreamless sleep. His fingers twitched and the petting stopped, the person squeezing gently before resuming the caress. Another hand settled against his forehead. Clint’s body felt heavy, but the touch felt nice. Death wasn’t so bad if he stayed warm and comfortable. 

The touch on his left hand changed, moving from his knuckles to his palm. Three taps, a dash. Victory. Clint would have chuckled. Maybe Thor pulled a couple strings, got him into Valhalla. The code repeated, three dots and a dash, but a second dash followed, capped with a little triangle. Nat’s signal. For success, for safety. For reassurance. Clint had never spent much time considering the afterlife, but if he got this, things must be okay. She’d been there at the end, after all. Dying hadn’t been so bad and now it’d be whatever. Soft, safe, and warm. He could do worse, he guessed.

The second time Clint surfaced the touches were gone, but darkness wasn’t so thick. A soreness in his shoulders he hadn’t notice throbbed against his dulled senses. No fair. He shouldn’t be hurting. But the moment he felt his shoulders, other little pinpricks of discomfort popped up on his radar. An ache in the top of his left hand, a tube sitting behind his ears, something in his nose. Itching at this right hand, another sting at the crook of his elbow. He took it back; being dead sucked.

Carefully, Clint opened his eyes. The dim light in the room hurt, but the sight of Nat dosing in the chair beside him was both a shock and something so familiar, his heart gave a little flip. He opened his mouth and found it dry. His throat burned as he tried to the speak. Nat sat up immediately, relief cascading over her face as she took a cup of ice chips from the bedside table and put the spoon against his lip. He let the ice melt on his tongue, but the burning didn’t abate. 

Natasha touched his forehead again after taking the ice. “Welcome back, Barton,” she said, making sure Clint could read her lips. He wished he could hear her. He tilted his head, showing his ear. “Not yet,” she signed. “The audiologist hasn’t cleared you.”

Clint shifted to look at her better. Holy futz was he sore. He tried moving his hand to sign, but his fingers refused to obey. Luckily, he didn’t need much.

“Been rough,” Natasha signed, her lips moving. “You’ve been in and out about a week. Your draw fingers are broken, the muscles in your shoulders pulled. Nasty infection. 2nd degree burns. You’re on antibiotics and an IV. Sorry about the catheter.”

Aw, body, no. Memories from the two weeks trickled back slowly. Cigarette butts burned out into his skin, hanging for day, starving, being beaten and bloodied. And Barney. Clint looked the question at her, the little lines on the heart monitor spiking faster.

“In the wind.”

Motherfucker. But at least Nat had saved him. She’d gotten the post card and—

No, that wasn’t right. Barney had sent it, but not to Nat. It’d gone to—

The heart monitor spiked and suddenly Natasha’s hands were on his shoulders, holding him down. Not that she really needed to exert much effort. She smoothed his hair back, gentling him until he calmed. 

“I’ll find him. Promise.”

Clint shook his head. She had to understand.

“Steve is okay,” she signed, and Clint kicked himself for ever doubting her. “He’s very sick, but Stark has him in isolation until they figure out what’s wrong. He’s conscious, and miserable, and they keep him sedated him so he sleeps through the night. I’ll have JARVIS set up a call when you’re well enough, okay?”

He nodded. Clint could still see him, grinning as he broke the chains around Clint’s wrists, and then flushed and sweating, shivering, his eyes fever bright. He’d been out a week and Steve was still sick. The guilt sank into his gut, heavy. 

Natasha offered him more ice chips, and god he felt thirsty, but she’d stopped offering up information and the water turned sour on his tongue. Terror flashed through him at the memory of Bucky—Soldier—moving toward him with the lit cigarette, pressing the gun against his belly, ordering him to move. The momentary dead stare as Barney spat something in Russian. It’d been like watching a machine go offline, the way Bucky—Soldier—slightly collapsed, the muscles twitching in his face and the blood spontaneously running from his nose and ears.

Clint widened his eyes, begging.

Natasha glanced away. “He hasn’t woken up,” she signed. 

A whine forced itself out of Clint’s throat. No. No, no, no.

“Stark has the best doctors taking care of him. The good news is he’s got normal brain activity and it doesn’t look like Barney caused damage beyond the aneurism. They’ve kept him comatose to make sure nothing else went wrong, so now we’re waiting for him to wake up on his own.”

The panic on Clint’s face earned him a soft kiss on his cheek. “He will wake up. The kill switches didn’t work, and Stark has a team working to dismantle them. I’ll let you know the second anything changes, okay?”

Clint nodded, not quite stifling the whine. This was all his fault. He shouldn’t have sent the postcard. They never would have come for him, and they wouldn’t have gotten hurt.

“Hey,” Nat said, snapping her fingers in front of Clint’s face. He couldn’t hear it, but he felt the sting at the tip of his nose. “Not your fault. Barney’s fault. You didn’t cause this, and I won’t let your blame yourself. They’re going to be okay. You’re going to be okay.”

Clint opened his mouth. Natasha shoved a spoonful of ice chips into it. “You know better than to argue with me. Do as Natasha says.”

He scrabbled his fingers against the sheets until Nat slipped her hand into his. She reached over, pushing the morphine injector, and Clint came over all warm and sleepy. He squeezed her hand tight, mouthing ‘stay.’

Natasha nodded. “Rest now.”

Once given permission, Clint drifted off.

 

The lights were out when Clint woke again. He barely made out the shape of Nat curled up on the couch. Licking his lips, Clint looked up at the ceiling and mouthed, “JARVIS?” A small screen appeared in front of him, the light dimmed.

_Yes, Agent Barton? Can I call the nurse for you?_

Clint shook his head. “Steve?”

_Captain Rogers is currently asleep._

He looked up with puppy dog eyes.

_You’re anxious to know he’s okay._

Clint nodded. The text moved to the side, the majority of the window turning into a monitor. Steve was propped up in bed, an oxygen mask over his nose and mouth. His chest rose and fell, stuttering a little with each breath. Every so often, Steve coughed, a long racking spasm before he flopped back onto the pillow. 

He whimpered. A week later, Steve remained ill. It must be bad. JARVIS must be a futzing mind reader on top of being an omnipresent AI; the text on the screen changed. _Captain Rogers is expected to make a full recovery. It will simply take time while we identity the cause of his illness._

Clint sank back into his bed. JARVIS kept talking. _Agent Romanov mentioned your concerns regarding the mission. I understand why you feel responsible for the injuries your friends sustained, but let me assure you, Agent Barton, this is not your fault._

He shrugged. The fact remained that if he hadn’t sent that postcard, if they hadn’t come for him, they would be fine. Happy, laughing. They’d gotten out of the Avenging game for a reason. He’d dragged them back in.

_If you’d like, I can get in touch with your friend. Set up a meeting once you’re cleared for activity._

Closing his eyes, Clint nodded. He hated therapy, and therapists, but the one he’d found after SHIELD went to shit had been pretty good to him. It wasn’t tradition therapy so much as they hung out and did stuff and Clint maybe talked and definitely didn’t make eye contact if he didn’t want to. Also, she wasn’t a squid Nazi, so it worked out well. When Clint opened his eyes, the screen had already changed.

Buck’s room was much darker than Steve’s, one of the machines providing a dim glow. The green light traced the nasal cannula running from behind his ear to his nose. A black cast encased his right leg, propped in the sling, and dark circles ringed his eyes.

_Sergeant Barnes is also expected to recover_ , JARVIS said. _He’s doing well, no longer under sedation, and it’s a matter of time before he wakes up._

Clint nodded, darting his tongue out to lick at his bottom lip. He’d never wanted this to happen. Steve, at least, was conscious if unwell, but Bucky. . . If Bucky didn’t recover, Steve would never forgive him. Of course they were keeping Steve sedated. He’d be at Bucky’s side until he woke up if they hadn’t corralled him. Everyone know Steve’s biggest fear was losing Buck.

_Captain Rogers, Agent Romanov, and Sir have all taken turns speaking to him. It may make you feel better,_ ” JARVIS suggested.

He swallowed, trying to reach for the ice chips. JARVIS opened the bedside table and a robotic arm took the cup, lifted the spoon, and offered it to Clint. He ate them, trying to let the cold center him. After a moment, he looked back at the screen. His throat still hurt, his vocal chords raw. “I’m sorry, Buck,” he whispered, weakly pawing at the image. “I’m really sorry. Please wake up.”

Bucky didn’t move and his breathing remained even. It took Clint a long time to realize the picture had changed. The room remained still, but Bucky’s eyes were open now, staring back at Clint. Clint’s heart jumped, setting his own monitors off. He smiled despite the pain. “Hey, Buck,” he said. The roughness of his own voice made him cringe.

Bucky’s eyes narrowed, glinting in the limited light. His lips moved, the screen spelling out his words.

_Get out._

Clint’s heart sank. Oh, no. No, no, please, no. He shut his eyes, but when he opened them, Buck was still glaring, and it was all Clint could do to keep from crying as he mumbled, “Sorry,” and turned away. The screen blinked out, but the glow remained, JARVIS trying to comfort him.

_He’s only just awake. He may not recognize you, yet. His room is dark for a reason._

Clint whimpered and turned his back to the screen. He knew better. Buck knew exactly who he was and didn’t want him. No one did. Well, Nat. And—

But his best friend hated him. He couldn’t blame Bucky, but damn it hurt, a knife twisting in his guts. Clint choked down a sob and squeezed his eyes shut again, a tear leaking down his cheek. He’d force himself to sleep. At least then he could be somewhere else.

Somewhere else turned out to be staring down the Soldier, the cherry red tip of a cigarette burning between his lips.


	7. Seven

The decontamination chamber hissed, waking Steve from his fitful attempt at sleep. He hated being propped up, but if he laid down, his lungs protested in the extreme, the hacking cough forcing him upright anyway. The rare moments he managed to keep his lungs from bursting were interrupted by an endless game of Too-Hot-and-Too-Cold while his body failed to regulate his temperature. According to the output JARVIS provided from medical, his fever remained at 110 degrees.

“Last time my fever was above 100, I had pneumonia and influenza at the same time. Ma called for the priest,” Steve said, looking up at Tony as he waltzed into the room, having forsaken the mandatory face mask and Hazmat suit. Steve’s throat burned. 

Tony handed him a glass of water, positioning the straw so Steve could sip. “I don’t have a priest on retainer, but I do have decent news. Your Buckyboo’s awake.”

Steve pushed himself forward, heart hammering in his chest; the bed rose with him. Adrenaline washed through his veins, pushing aside his worry. Buck had been unconscious for a little over a week, drugged down while the medical team evaluated the damage to his body and his mind. Steve, being confined to his room, hadn’t been given many updates considering the staff tried to keep him unconscious, too. For obvious reason. “Really? How is he? Can I see him?” Another coughing spell struck him; he was so tired of the ache in his ribs. After this, someone was bound to show up with another syringe of something.

“Slow down, Romeo. I’ll get you set up with a camera and speaker, but I can’t promise you’ll be able to talk to him tonight.”

A disappointed hum escaped before Steve could stop it. “Is he all right?”

Tony set the water glass beside the bed. “That’s what they have yet to determine. Physically—broken leg and fucked up shoulder aside—he’s fine, but they’re keeping him in sensory deprivation, more or less. You know, navigating the old damage versus the new. I’m not a neuroscientist, but I bought the best one money could buy. According to them, he's been in and out, not always himself. Standard trauma stuff. I’ll let you know if they find anything or if anything changes,” he added.

Steve nodded, pulling the blankets around his shoulders. The shivers were back. His room was pretty nice if he managed to overlook the transparent walls. It made him feel like he was sleeping in a fishbowl, though JARVIS did tint the glass for privacy when required or if Steve asked. Beside him, Tony pulled out a tablet. Suddenly, Steve felt painfully awkward. “Is this a friendly visit because you all know I’m bored, or . . .?” he asked.

“I dunno. Are we friends?”

“Tony.”

Tony flicked his fingers across the screen, a hologram forming beside him. Steve read his own vitals and chart, along with a rapidly scrolling report that made him dizzy trying to decipher. He closed his eyes, huddling deeper beneath the blanket. “The good news is you’ll be out of isolation in a day or so. We’re getting a room ready closer to your Buckybear. The bad news is you can’t see him until we make damn sure you’re not contagious.”

Another coughing fit seized his lungs, and it look several minutes before Steve could breathe well enough to speak. “But you’re in here. Not wearing a suit.”

“I’m immune,” Tony replied. “In fact, everyone is except your husband. He’s got enough to deal with, but it doesn’t look like he caught anything during the fight.”

“Wait, why would Buck get sick?” Steve asked. Heat flared through him and he couldn’t unwrap himself fast enough. He didn’t miss fevers. Or body chills. “And why won’t you? I thought . . .biowarfare . . .stuff.” God, his head ached. Steve curled onto his side, panting.

Tony frowned. “We’re not supersoldiers. Whatever Barney "Shove My Head into a Garbage Disposal" Barton hit you with specifically targets the serum. Since your boy got the knockoff stuff, we figured better safe than sorry.”

An icy dread trickled along Steve spine. “It targets the serum.”

“Yeah, which explains your exceptionally high, persistent fever,” Tony said. He collapsed the hologram. “Erskine’s formula melded with your DNA, right? So the virus—I’m calling it a virus— is attacking your new serum-powered immune system, so not only is your body fighting the illness, the serum is trying to fix you while fighting the virus. It’s overloaded, even with the good drugs.”

The last time Steve felt this sick, he’d almost died. He suddenly, desperately wanted to see Bucky, to curl into him and feel safe. Hell, Steve would settle for holding his hand or hearing his voice. Seeing him. Anything. And if the virus attacked the serum, what did that mean for him in the long run? And if the virus beat the serum . . .

Worse than feeling terrible, Steve lost any and all semblance of poker face. Tony must have seen his panic because he dropped the sarcasm. “You’re gonna be fine, Steve. The bad new is you’re gonna have to muscle through it like the rest of us mere mortals. I can take the edge off, hopefully get you some sleep, but it’s gotta run its course.”

Steve nodded. He could do this. He’d been sick his whole life. Well, most of it. Swallowing, he nodded again. “How long?”

Tony shrugged. “We don’t know. Right now, we’re trying to get your fever to break. Once it does, I’m guessing a couple days, maybe a week? Two, absolute tops.”

Reaching back, Steve tugged the blankets around himself again, using the movement as a distraction as he tried to focus on his breathing. Easier said than done when his lungs were back to their asthmatic glory. “And Clint?”

“Not great. He’d drugged out half the time and we’re trying to get him well enough to add soft foods back into his diet. Nat’s glued to his side.”

She’d popped by to check on Steve a time or two. As much as Steve knew she wanted to be out there hunting Barney, there was no way in hell she’d leave Clint until he was in the clear.

The next coughing fit lasted longer, painfully strong and forcing Steve to bury his face in his blankets. The headboard tilted higher, pushing him upright, but beneath the cough, Steve felt the anxiety brewing and if he couldn’t breathe now, a full-blown panic attack would have him back on oxygen in minutes. 

Steve and his therapist had work on developing his coping skills, but they hadn’t considered what he’d do if bedridden. Maybe he could get Tony to bring him a sketchbook and a pencil or . . .

It wasn’t until Tony started to push out his chair after holding the water out for him again that Steve glanced up and said, “We are, you know. Friends.”

Tony paused, not meeting Steve’s gaze. He took his time, figuring out what he wanted to say. “I’m an asshole. We covered that, right, back in my lab? The whole, ‘I’m a selfish bastard and I’m shit at apologies’ schtick? I listened to your hubby back there, and yeah, he’s right. Thing is, I was focused on the wrong guy. Captain America was my team mate; Steve was my friend . . .kinda. I didn’t realize how much I didn’t know about you until Barnes showed up.”

Steve opened his mouth and closed it without speaking. Holy shit, one speech had been fairly unexpected, but two?

“Anyway, you gave me plenty of opportunities to fix it and I didn’t. I could have reached out. Instead, I sulked.”

Steve rested his hand Tony’s arm before taking it back. “You had every right to be upset. I should have told you myself when I found out. I should have been honest, and I should have respected your reaction." 

Tony shook his head, worry lines etched across his forehead. “Yeah, well, wasn’t until three of you almost didn’t make it outta this that I realized how bad I fucked up. You were happy, happiest I’d ever seen you, and my temper tantrum meant I missed out on the most important event in my friend’s life: your wedding.” He paused, raising his shoulders in a resigned shrug. “I can’t imagine how much it meant to you.”

Steve blinked, surprised. Tony had never struck him as a weddings guy but hearing the resignation and regret in his voice sent a pang through his own heart. “We can start over. If you want. Clean slate,” Steve offered. 

Tony glanced at him, shrugged, and then turned around. “Tony Stark,” he said, offering his hand.

Somehow Steve managed to fully find his way out his blanket nest, reaching out to grip Tony’s hand. “Steve Rogers.”

“Rogers?” Tony asked, plopping back down in his chair. “You mean you didn't take your husband’s last name? No hyphenate?” Suddenly, Tony’s eyes grew wide. “Wait. Wait, wait wait, is he Buck Rogers now? Tell me he’s Buck Rogers.”

A crooked smiled tugged up the corner of Steve’s mouth. “He’s still Bucky Barnes.We couldn’t decide which way to combine our names, so we didn’t bother. Though, legally speaking, I’m Grant Barnes and he’s James Rogers.”

Tony rolled his eyes. Steve hadn’t realized how much he’d missed Tony’s bullshit. “You two are the worst.”

“We are.” Steve rearranged his nest before reaching over to the table for his phone. He felt like trash, but one thing would absolutely cheer him up. “You wanna see wedding pictures?”

“Damn right I wanna see wedding pictures,” Tony said, leaning back and propping his feet on the bed. Steve grinned, unlocked his phone, and scrolled down to the album.

 

Tony stayed until he couldn’t take the sickly sweet mooning Steve did over the wedding album. Steve smirked; this was only the curated cut he’d uploaded to his phone. His physical wedding album was twice the length and had photos from their trip to Prague. Tony left Steve with a sketchpad, some of the cheap mechanical pencils that Steve had taken a shine to, an eraser, and a fancy StarkPad that looked just like Steve’s tablet but had been promised was “a million times more efficient and cooler looking.” It looked the same to Steve, but hey, let Tony have his fun. 

Steve doodled while he could. He didn’t have the energy for much, but holding a pencil scratched his idleness itch. And he’d been cleared to get out of bed, thank god. His back hurt, despite the comfy lounging arrangements. Made his spine feel twisted. He shuddered. Nope. Focus on the sketchpad. It was almost five that evening when the fancy tablet rang. The sketchpad hit the floor, the pencil rolled under the bed, and the lights in Steve’s room dimmed when he answered. 

Bucky’s pale face filled the screen and Steve wanted to kiss him more than anything. “Hey, sweetheart,” he said, pouring all the affection he could into his voice.

“Baby doll,” Buck answered. He sounded half asleep, and his eyes were dreamy when he opened him. He groaned. “Five more minutes, mmmk? Don’t wanna get up yet.”

“You don’t have to get up, Buck.” Steve traced his finger along the screen. A cough welled up in his throat and he tried to swallow it back down.

Bucky’s brow furrowed. “Stevie, you sick?”

“A little, yeah.”

“Your ma’s gonna kill you. And me. Told you not to go out without your gloves and scarf.”

Uh oh. “Buck,” Steve said, the cough slipping out anyway. “What year is it?”

Bucky chuckled. “Why? You think you slept too late? Didn’t have a fever yesterday. I’ll run to the corner, get you some tonic.”

“I got some. Went yesterday when I was feeling under the weather.”

“Mmm. Up for Sunday dinner? My ma expects us but if you’re sick, well, she’d understand.”

Steve sighed, heart dropping. They hadn’t had Sunday dinner with Buck’s ma since 1939.

“Don’t have to be all dramatic. I’ll tell her,” Buck mumbled. “Becca and Alice’ll get over it.”

Steve went cold. Buck hadn’t remembered his sisters, at least not that Steve had known. He hadn’t mentioned them, and Steve hadn’t brought them up. Maybe he should have before now. There were a lot of things he should have done. “Buck,” Steve said, trying again, “what year is it?”

“Musta hit your head,” Buck said, closing his eyes. “Is 1938.” He wrinkled his nose. “Weird. Can’t feel my arm. Got a headache. What happened to me? Am I sick, too?”

“Just rest, okay, sweetheart?”

“Sure, Stevie. You, too. Gotta wear your scarf.” Buck snuggled into his pillow and drifted off. 

After a moment, Steve’s video screen went dark. “JARVIS?”

“Yes, Captain Rogers?”

“What are Sergeant Barnes’s brain scans showing? Has he suffered a memory lapse?”

“According to his scans, Sergeant Barnes is showing no sign of significant memory loss. His cognitive functions appear unimpaired, but he hasn’t been conscious very long. It’s possible he’s still healing and may have simply fixed on a common memory, in this case, the last time you were ill.”

Steve nodded. “Makes sense. Have I been cleared to visit him?”

JARVIS didn’t answer immediately. Steve looked up at the ceiling. He’d tried to break that habit, but he couldn’t help feeling he needed to address something. 

“Sergeant Barnes is still undergoing a routine examination. You should be able to see him tonight.”

Steve closed his eyes, relief washing through. One thing at a time. And in a couple hours, he’d not only get to leave his boring isolation room, but he’d get to be with his husband. He’d almost managed to wait patiently until a nurse came to collect him, springing out of bed the moment the decontamination chamber hissed. Springing, Steve thought, was relative. He’d stumbled a little, righted himself, and then had to sit until his head stopped spinning.

Still, he followed, trying for his best behavior as the nurse instructed him on what he should and should not do once inside Bucky’s room. He nodded, face set in Captain America Mode, but once he saw Buck, all bets were off, his heart pounding too hard and too loud.

 

 

The sensors in his left hand registered slight pressure as a soft touch brushed along his forehead. Buck found himself awake before his body got the message. He hated the sensation of being trapped, the whirr of distant machinery. Cold air dancing along his exposed skin. The pillow beneath his head felt too soft for the cryo chamber. His metal arm came online, and a moment later, his brain reconnected with the rest of him and he managed to turn his head, opening his eyes.

Steve sat beside him in the low light, cheeks flushed, a soft smiling on his face. “Hey, Buck.”

He couldn’t help returning the smile. “Hey, Stevie. How ya feeling?”

“Sick,” Steve answered, keeping his voice low, a slight laugh in his tone. “And sore. And tired. But I’m so happy you’re awake. Do you remember what happened?”

Buck nodded, immediately regretting the motion. It felt like an ice pick had been jammed into his head. “Yeah. Don’t remember getting on the quinjet, but JARVIS said my memory’s been a little off.”

“You remember talking to me earlier?”

“No.”

“You thought it was 1938.”

Bucky laughed weakly. “No way. This hospital's too fancy. Plus, sentient AI.”

“Good point.” Steve paused, licked his lips, then settled next to Bucky. “You said something I don’t think you knew before. You were talking about how we’d be late for dinner at your ma’s, and you mentioned Becca and Alice.”

Something clawed at Bucky’s chest, building pressure beneath his ribs. He remembered Sunday dinners at his house, Stevie in tow, setting an extra plate at the table. Steve had been joining them regularly since his ma died, and Winifred Barnes refused to let Buck’s best friend starve. Plus Steve distracted Becca and Alice long enough to let Fred finish cooking.

Bucky met Steve’s eyes, that clawing desperation seeping through his body as sorrow. “I had sisters.”

Steve nodded. “I hadn’t thought about them in a long time, and once you were in recovery, I was told not to stress you with memories, to let you work things out as you could. By then I didn’t know how to bring it up.”

He could see them now, two girls much younger than him and Steve, both dark haired. Becca had been whip smart and Alice had been cunning, and they’d both adored him as much as he’d adored them. They’d cried when his draft letter came; he wrote to them as often as he could. There’d been a photo of the three of them, Buck in his uniform with Becca and Alice at his sides. He wondered what happened to that photograph.

“I have a sketch of them,” Steve said. “In one of the books. I’ll find it, if you want.”

“Yeah,” Buck answered, numb. “Please.”

Steve nodded, pressing a kiss against his hair. “Is it okay if I stay here with you tonight? I’ve been stuck in isolation for a week.”

“I’ve been out a week?”

“And a couple days. Clint just woke up, too. He’s a few rooms down.”

Buck closed his eyes, tilting his head down. Even the low light began to hurt. “How’s he doing?”

“Not well. They keep him drugged up and they’re trying to get him to eat on his own. Natasha said he has disordered eating behavior after trauma, so she’s watching him. He’s awake, though, which is good.”

“Yeah, good,” Buck muttered. He felt himself drifting off. When he managed to open his eyes again, a second bed had been moved into his room and Steve had curled up in the blankets, still holding Bucky’s hand. 

 

“Good morning, sunshines,” a voice from his nightmares called, and sure enough, Tony Stark waltzed in brandishing something oblong and black and fuck this. Buck squeezed his eyes shut, risking the pain to turn his face into the fabric of his pillow. Oh yeah, that fucking hurt.

“Shhh, Tony,” Steve chided, whispering. “Didn’t the nurse tell you to be quiet.”

“She did, but a lot of people tell me that. I didn’t realize it was an instruction. Is that why it’s so dark in here?”

“Yes,” Steve hissed.

“Well, get your husband up,” Tony said, lowering his voice. “Oh god, no. I mean wake up him. Wake him up.”

“‘M awake,” Buck groaned. “What?”

“Gotcha a gift, Terminator. They’re real snazzy, too.”

Bucky very unwillingly hit the button to rise the backboard on the bed. The thing Tony had been waving around was a glasses case. He snapped it open, revealing a pair of aviator style glasses, the lenses lightly tinted. “You made me sunglasses.”

“I made you light sensitivity and migraine reduction sunglasses, but decreased the opacity without compromising on the health benefits because I’m a great guy and I don’t think there are that many jokes I can make about one-hit-wonder Corey Hart.”

Bucky stared at him until Tony pushed the glasses closer. Sighing, he plucked them out of the case and put them on.

“JARVIS, let there be light,” Tony said, raising his arms, and the perpetual gloom lifted.

Automatically, Bucky cringed, but the lenses cut the glare down, allowing him to see without the razor blade of the migraine digging into his skull. He looked over at Steve. “I look hot?”

“Smokin’ hot,” Steve answered, scooting over to circle an arm around Bucky’s chest.

“Yeah, you got it made with the guy in the shades,” Tony said. “There’s not much I can do about the sound sensitivity, but at least being able to see again should cut down on the sensory overload until you finish healing. I know, I’m a genius.”

“Better news,” he continued, “we’re gonna hook you up with a sweet pair of crutches and you’re both outta here. Well. Almost. I’m not going to force you, but I’d prefer if you both stayed here. In the tower. Steve, your floor is still open and move-in ready.”

“You have a floor?” Buck asked, eyebrows raised.

“I guess. I never used it,” Steve answered. “You want us to stay?”

Tony nodded. “At least a week. Then you can return to your quaint and tiny Brooklyn apartment and your boring lives. I’d like to have you close in case anything happens or Barnes’s new glasses need tweaking, or his arm need further repair. Easier to get you downstairs than across town,” he added with a shrug.

Steve looked at Bucky, waiting for his answer. Buck couldn’t fault Tony’s logic and a week spent on Stark’s dime didn’t sound all that bad. He was bound to have the good whiskey. “This bed is hell on my back, man. Let’s check out the star-spangled penthouse.”


	8. Eight

Steve curled up on the couch with Bucky, the silver marker he’d been using to draw on Bucky’s cast discarded on the coffee table, when the elevator doors opened and Clint shuffled in, followed by Natasha and Tony. Ledi leapt off Bucky’s chest and padded over to Clint. Sam had dropped her off earlier and she hadn’t left Bucky’s side since. Now she twined around Clint’s legs, meowing up at him in concern. Clint reached down to scratch her head.

“Hey, princess,” he said. “Don’t worry, I’m okay.”

Sitting up, Steve waited until Clint finished and Ledi padded back over. “It’s good to see you up and moving, Clint,” he said. “Are you staying here, too?”

“Funny you should ask,” Tony answered. “Barton is, actually, staying here. As in here. In your apartment.” Steve blinked, surprised. Tony steamrolled right along. “Since I have JARVIS keeping an eye on you and the Tin Man, I thought I’d save myself the manpower and invite Lion for a sleepover.”

Natasha rolled her eyes at Tony. “We thought Clint would be fare better among friends instead of alone on his floor.”

“Of course. Got plenty of room,” Steve said. "There’s a guest room across the hall from our room, Clint. Make yourself at home.”

“And I’ll make you something to eat,” Nat added, giving him a gentle push.

Clint nodded and headed down the hall, looking worse for wear. Steve glanced between Nat and Tony. “You want us to keep an eye on him?”

“Yeah, but don’t let on you’re doing it,” Tony said. His mask of humor cracked, the worry etching itself across Tony’s face. Natasha slipped off toward the kitchen. “We couldn’t keep him in medical; you know how he is. And yeah, I shoulda asked, but he wanted to see you two and this sounded like the best compromise.”

Steve glanced over the way Clint had gone. “Does he have his ears in?”

“Yeah. He’s not talking much, which tells me something’s up. And worse; he didn’t actually try to escape from medical. Usually, he hides out in the workshop,” Tony said, trailing off. 

Steve swallowed. After last time, Steve had learned how hard Clint could be on himself. He believed everything bad was his fault, and that it was his duty to make it right, even at his own expense. “We’ll look after him.”

Tony nodded, pasting on a grin and rubbing his hands together as Clint emerged from the hall. “Excellent. Try not to go too crazy with the pillow fights. I don’t wanna have to cast Barnes’s other leg and you can’t handle a broken nose right now, Sniffles.”

Steve gave him a half-hearted glare. Beside him, Bucky stirred, winced, and reached for his glasses. “What’s going on?”

“Clint is staying for a sleepover,” Steve said, inclining his head toward the archer. He held a glass full of something purple, gingerly sucking at the straw Natasha had given him. She had her hand pressed against his back.

Buck looked at Clint, then over at Tony, who beamed just as brightly. He closed his eyes and rested his head on Steve's shoulder. “Fine.”

From the corner of his eye, Steve saw Clint wince. “We’re gonna need noodles. From the ramen place down the block. All of them.”

“Really?” Buck groaned.

“Yes. They’re soft, warm, and solve basically solve every problem. Plus after a lifetime of being force fed soup, I find it oddly comforting now.”

“For the record here, are you, Captain America, asking me to send you noods? You heard him, Nat. He wants noods.”

JARVIS brought up a screen with the image of a cartoon bowl of noodles grinning, with the text “Send Noodz” around the drawing. Bucky promptly removed his glasses and went back to sleep while Steve shot a pleading look at Natasha. “Leave Clint, take Stark away. Please ask Pepper to place the order for us.”

Natasha pulled Stark back toward the elevator, pausing to look back at Clint. “I made enough to last you a couple days. Every two hours. You understand?”

Clint nodded, still working at his smoothie. Once they’d gone, Steve shifted his attention to Clint. “You wanna sit? We got plenty of blankets and a new season of that baking show you like to binge.”

Instead of joining them on the couch, Clint sat in the armchair, wrapping himself up in a blanket along with his smoothie. Steve kept the volume low, turning on the subtitles so Clint and Buck could both follow the show. Buck had put his glasses back on and contented himself petting Ledi until she reached a gray paw over to Steve and demanded his attention, too. The last couple of days had been rough for Buck, who couldn't seem to stay awake for longer than an hour at a time, and didn't always remember where he was when he did wake up. The fugue states ocurred more frequently, but didn't seem to stick.

Steve glanced over at Clint every now and then; he hadn’t uttered a word in hours. Steve knew Clint’s voice had been shredded during his ordeal with his brother. He’d been intubated, and judging by the smoothie, Clint had trouble eating, but Steve had seen Clint injured and hurting, and he’d always had a smirk, a coffee cup, and a joke. This Clint hunched in on himself, stealing glances at them and keeping his eyes down. It broke Steve’s heart to see his friend in pain.

When the elevator doors opened, heralding the arrival of their dinner, Clint stood up with a mumbled, “Let me,” and brought the bag over to the coffee table. Steve opened the bag, but Clint sorted through it one handed, picking up containers and organizing them. Steve touched Bucky’s shoulder, waking him up and helping him change position. Ledi curled up on Steve’s lap, sniffling for noodles as Buck lowered his right leg toward the floor.

Clint opened a cup of ramen and handed it to Bucky. Bucky took it without a word and set it back down. Steve rubbed his upper back; moving too quickly made Bucky ill and staying upright for a long period was difficult for him. He took the soup after a moment when Steve offered it and stirred the noodles around with his spoon.

Steve sipped at the broth, warm and rich with spice, enjoying the way the heat settled into his chest. He couldn’t have too much; his fever hadn’t broken yet, but at least he’d stopped coughing so much during the day. Clint went back to his chair, the half-full smoothie glass abandoned on the table.

“We ordered for you, too,” Steve said, pushing a container toward Clint. “It’s plain. Just noodles and broth. It might help you feel better.”

Clint reached for the soup and wrestled the lid off, settling back and raising it to his lips with his good hand. Steve watched until Clint started nibbling at the noodles before making sure Buck ate, too. The silence didn’t get any less uncomfortable. Clint cleaned up the soup and put everything away. When Steve entered the kitchen, Clint had a glass of water and Steve’s medication waiting on the counter, along with a second glass and Bucky’s drugs.

“Thank you,” Steve said. Clint gave him a watery smile and took Bucky’s stuff into the living room. When he returned a few minutes later, he looked crestfallen but he didn’t say a word. Steve heard the sound of Bucky’s crutches as he moved back toward their bedroom.

“Clint,” he started, “You don't have to take care of us. We're okay. And... you know you can talk to me. About what happened, about Barney, about anything. We’re friends.”

Clint shook his head. “I’m fine, Steve,” he whispered. “Thank you.”

He knew there was no getting Clint to open up if he didn’t want to, so instead Steve waited until he could usher Clint down the hall toward the guest room.

“JARVIS can soundproof the room if I keep you up. I haven’t been able to shake the cough,” Steve said with a shrug. “Try to get some rest?”

Clint nodded, opened the door and slipped inside. “G’night, Steve.”

“Goodnight,” Steve answered. He hesitated a moment before heading to his own room and his tower of pillows, hoping things were get easier for everyone.

 

They didn’t. 

Clint scurried around doing his best to help, even when Steve urged him to relax. He didn’t say much, but after a day or so, Steve noticed his skittishness around Bucky, they way he’d flinch if Bucky looked at him. Bucky hadn’t said a word to Clint. There was only so much Steve could chalk up to Bucky being ill, and even then, Steve couldn’t think of a reason that Buck would ignore his best friend.

Steve curled up in bed beside him that night, poking him in the ribs. “What’s going on with you and Clint?”

“Nothing,” Buck answered, short and pointed.

“Obviously. Talk to me.” The familiar game of waiting Bucky out until he finally aired his grievances was as routine at this point as Steve feeling ill. Just like the old days.

Buck sighed. “I don’t know what to say to him. I’m angry, and I’m hurt, and I’m upset.”

“About what?”

He struggled to sit up, wincing with the effort. “This,” he said, gesturing to his head. “Barney nearly killed me, poisoned you with god knows what, tortured, starved, and beat the shit out of my best friend, and Clint fucking defended him. I’m furious and my fucking skull feels like it’s splitting open. I don’t wanna lash out at him, I don’t want to hurt him, but I don’t understand, Stevie.”

“You always were the hold it in and let it rot grudge-holding champion,” Steve said. “Nat said Clint was weird about his brother. I guess that’s what she meant. But I remember how this went last time. I understand why you’re ignoring him, but you’re being a dick, and Clint needs his best bro.”

Bucky glowered, but didn’t answer.

“I know you don’t want to hurt him, but you are. You know he’s blaming himself for what happened to us.”

“It’s not like he stays in the room long enough for me to talk to him.”

“He’s scared, Buck. He probably thinks we’re mad at him—“

“I _am_ mad at him.”

“—And he probably thinks he deserve whatever pain he’s inflicting on himself by trying to take care of us. When I accused him of working for Hydra, he yelled right back at me. The Clint sleeping in our guest room is just taking it. And I’ve never known Clint to just take anything. I’m not saying you don’t have the right to be upset, but you need to stop being an asshole. That two week stretch you wouldn’t speak to me was the worst time of my life.”

Bucky bowed his head. “I don’t even know what to say to him.”

Steve brushed his fingers through Bucky’s hair. He’d gotten pretty good at breaking the man down over the decades. “Knowing Clint? He probably needs a hug. And for you to stop glaring at him.” He pressed a kiss to Bucky’s cheek. “I’ll talk to him tomorrow while you’re at the lab, if you want me to.”

“Yeah. You’re better at this than I am,” Buck said.

“I can get him in a room, but you gotta be the one to do the work, Buck. I’m sure he didn’t choose Barney over you, even if that’s how it feels.”

Buck curled into him as best he could with a broken leg, and Steve tried to get some rest despite the anxiety stirring in his chest. His appointment was set a couple hours after Bucky’s; he’d have to tell the doctors his symptoms were getting worse.

 

 

Noise had never been something he actively considered making. An assassin’s survival depended on stealth and silence; weapons did not give away their location before it was too late to avoid them. But he was no longer a gun to be aimed and fired at someone else’s will. Still, he had to force the rubber grips to squeak on the flooring, a soft sound the man on the bed heard anyway, if his flinch was any indication. He stayed framed in the doorway, the hallway light reflecting off the metal poles beneath his arms.

Being _seen_ remained . . .strange. It rankled, going against his instincts, but he’d come out here for a reason, and his target hadn’t moved from his position. Even in the dark, he noted the way the other man curled his fists, the way his spine straightened as he sat up, the way he glanced from the corner of his eye. He stayed motionless, simply watching from the doorway.

Non-threatening had also never been a mark in his dossier, but the target—Clint, former handler, not Hydra—Clint didn’t run despite his obvious urge to do so. If he hadn’t fled by now, he wasn’t going to. Moving on crutches came more easily than expected. Previous medical treatment had been limited to painful bone resetting followed by freezing to death. He crossed the short distance to the armchair near the door, furthest from Clint; damage made the body weary, the painkillers slowing his blood in way that made him itch from the inside out.

The cushion gave slightly beneath his weight, the metal crutches clicking softly as he propped them by his extended leg. Clunky black plaster covered him from foot to knee. At some point, Captain Rogers had doodled a tiny silver heart on the inside of his ankle, accompanying whatever else had been written on the cast. He would inquire about it later.

Perhaps being the living embodiment of a nightmare and walking on shattered limbs had additional, unpredictable consequences. To Clint’s advantage, the room he occupied had an expansive floor plan, and plenty of opportunity to evade and escape.

Clint struggled to relax his posture, trying to slow and even out his breath. Silence never bothered him, so he continued his observations. Knowing the target was vital. At no point would he believe Clint unintelligent; at no point would he underestimate the archer but Clint wore his exhaustion close, the weight dragging him down.

He had seldom experienced prolonged cognitive thought without direction or incentive, let alone been allowed to form an opinion or act of his own accord. Words were few and far between. Captain Rogers—Steve—Steve slept in the room down the hall, meaning when at last he spoke, voice still rusted from disuse, he spoke quietly and precisely.

“You should be dead.”

The target—Clint—flinched, his fists clenching as he glared at him.

He remained still, staring right back, expression blank. “I understand.”

“Understand what?” Clint hissed. He shrank back a fraction of an inch.

“Loyalty. You did as you were . . .conditioned.”

Clint’s eyes widened at that, his jaw clenched. Anger radiated from the man in waves. “I was not _conditioned_. No one owns me.”

“Didn’t claim he did,” he continued, even and calm. “Loyalty isn’t generated by force alone. You took a bullet for him; you were willing to die for your brother despite his torture, his neglect, his disregard for your life.” He let his focus shift to middle distance for a moment. The scene remained clear in his mind—another first after so many distorted memories—the gauntness to Clint’s face, the scent of burned flesh and ash, the smug, wicked smile twisting the other Barton’s mouth. The schematics and plans they’d seen. Anger flared in his own mind, but he tamped it down. It didn’t belong to him anyway. Not all of it. “He doesn’t understand,” he continued, shifting his attention back to Clint. “But I do.”

A flurry of emotions passed behind Clint’s eyes, everything stripped bare by exhaustion. It unnerved him in its intimacy. Clint swallowed hard. “You don’t know me.”

Slowly, he tilted his head. “I know what it’s like to feel obligated to protect those who’ve harmed you.”

Clint drew in a shaky breath and let it out again, saying nothing. The archer knew what Hydra had done, in more detail than he probably wanted.

“I went through more handlers than the records show, and it wasn’t always rape and torture after they used me. Some were kind. One brought towels to dry me off after the techs hosed me down post-mission, before returning me to cryo. She washed my hair. Once or twice, she brought me treats, little candies that wouldn’t make me sick. She was kind. When I got out, I repaid that kindness by killing her quickly.

“There is a difference between kindness and goodness. You desperately want to believe your brother will one day be good to you again. You owe him nothing but will give him everything because you’re a better man.” 

The archer shrank in on himself, shaking his head. “I’m not a good man.”

“You are not a _nice_ man,” he corrected. “You are brutal and ruthless, but you would die for your friends because you care deeply for them. You know what it is to be a villain and you choose to be a hero instead, even if your methods aren’t acceptable to the masses.”

Clint looked away, expression unreadable in the dark.

A soft mewling sounded by his ankle. The grey kitten leapt into his lap, curled up, and settled in. She’d followed him through the flat since they’d gotten there, his little shadow. After a minute, she pawed at his right arm, demanding attention. He complied. It provided respite, the soothing repetitive action; he’d spoken more in one night than he had in his life. It was exhausting, on top of healing a broken bone and rescrambled brain. He didn’t have all night, however, and there was more to be said.

“He planned to sell you to Hydra to be made into another Soldier. The schematics dictated opening your skull and implanting a chip into your brain.”

The color drained from Clint’s face and his posture collapsed. Clint’s stricken expression stirred something in his mind, but he shoved it away. He recognized that sensation; there wasn’t a lot of time left. On the other side of the room, Clint hung his head. He nudged the kitten in his lap. She stared up a him for a minute before leaping down and padding over to the archer, where she promptly curled up in his lap and began her routine of demanding attention.

He liked that cat. 

Clint sniffled. “He really does hate me,” he whispered.

He shrugged. “It’s why we decided the other Barton deserved a bullet.” The archer glanced up, and he knew the other man had caught the inflection in his voice. “He’s furious anyone would harm someone he cares for. I’m furious because no one deserve to be made into what I am.”

The archer absently ran his fingers through the kitten’s fur. There wasn’t much left to say, and he gathered the crutches, leveraging himself into standing. The body ached. Injury was inconvenient. Clint still hadn’t moved, but he felt the other man’s attention on him as he moved back toward the door. Healing required sleep, even when circumstances weren’t ideal. He supposed an feverish Captain was better than an icy cryo chamber.

Still, he paused, and for reasons he couldn’t place, set a hand on Clint’s shoulder. “He is upset, yes, but he doesn’t see what I do. He does not like being afraid.”

“I’m not . . . I don’t hold it against him. Or . . .or you,” Clint said.

He didn’t miss the tiny flinch the archer gave; a smile quirked the corner of his mouth, the feeling foreign.

Another voice broke the silence, followed by a coughing fit. “Buck?”

He glanced back toward the bedroom, then turned back to Clint. “Koshka?” he whispered. The kitten glanced up at him, blinked, and went back to pushing against Clint’s hand. 

Nodding, he maneuvered the crutches and turned, disappearing into the dark of the hallway and closing the door behind him.


	9. Nine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: mention of past child abuse

The elevator took Bucky down to the lab at slower pace, but so much for not feeling the momentum. He kept his eyes closed, focusing on his breathing, nearly falling over in relief when JARVIS quietly announced their arrival. Tony’s lab was dim, even beyond the range of the glasses, and Bucky found his eyes didn’t ache so much. He maneuvered his crutches over to the fancy glass doors. A robot on the other side of the glass tapped something, and the doors opened.

“Thanks,” Bucky said.

The robot’s arm seemed to beckon him forward, so Bucky followed. He wanted to see Stark's Dungeon of Science and Explosives, but the effort to turn his head proved too much. He had an appointment; the tour could wait. 

Tony sat behind another glass wall, at a desk with dozens of those screens floating around him. On one, Buck noticed the familiar schematics for his metal arm, complete with red star. Next to it were other symbols, including Steve’s white star and shield. The rotating screens made his dizzy. 

Stark didn’t look up as he spoke. “How’re the glasses? They helping with the light sensitivity?”

Buck glanced at him, thick goggles perched on Stark's face as he welded some metal together. “For the most part. My skull still feels like it was cracked open, but at least I can move through the apartment without closing all the curtains and turning off the lights.”

“Must be a change of pace from your usual ‘I am the night’ routine,” Stark said. “Any changes in vision? Vertigo? Have the migraines lessened?”

Buck shrugged. “I don’t move around much. I get dizzy if I turn my head or sit up too fast. I got motion sick in the elevator.”

Stark frowned. “I don’t like that.”

“Not too keen on it myself.”

Setting his project aside, Stark shoved himself away from his desk, pushed the goggles onto his head, and spun toward another desk. The glass doors opened. “Come on, Barnes. Have a seat and let me get you sorted.”

Buck glanced at his robot guide. It seemed to shrug, so Bucky entered the deeper portion of the lab with only a hint of apprehension. He cautiously sat in the chair next to the desk, propping his crutches beside him. “You do know you’re not a medical doctor, right?”

Stark blinked at him. “Yeah. Why? Is that important?” He waved his hand and the screens flocked around him again. “According to your last brain scan, things should be improving. Memory loss?”

Bucky snorted. “Nothing new, I don’t think. Guess I wouldn't know.”

“Memory restoration?”

He cringed at that. “Yes.”

Thankfully, Stark didn’t press. “Still dizzy, still experiencing issues with external stimulation. How’s the auditory sensitivity?”

“Better, but not for prolonged periods of time. Why are you doing this?” His filter apparently vanished, too.

Stark looked at Bucky like the answer should be obvious. “Science,” he said.

“Why are you helping me,” Bucky clarified. “The things you said before, about my arm, about fixing it—fixing me—why would you want to help me? So Steve forgives you?”

He waved the screen hovering between them away. No barriers, no place to hide. Stark caught and held Bucky’s gaze. “So I can start forgiving myself. I let a lot of bad things happen, Barnes. Hell, I even helped create some of them. I didn’t start the whole superhero thing to help other people, but once I realized that’s a thing I could do—wanted to do—yeah, new leaf, shiny new purpose for life, yada yada. Turns out I like doing it. I’m good at it.”

“And you, well, you deserve better than what HYDRA gave you. I know T’challa put you up in Wakanda after the whole civil war fiasco. Why didn’t you let him fix your arm? I’ll tell you why,” Stark said, ignoring the sarcastic arch in Bucky’s brow. “Because you thought you weren’t worthy of help. You thought HYDRA’s bullshit was your burden to bear, your punishment, and you kept that arm because you hated yourself. Stop me if I’m wrong.”

“The family resemblance is fucking uncanny,” Bucky finally said. “Howard never shut up, either.”

Stark shrugged, tipped his glasses back onto his nose, and flicked a switch to make the lenses magnify what looked like a MRI scan. “I got some upgrading ideas for the internal structure and the external components. I hate to give HYDRA points for anything, but that was a damn impressive effort a century ago. Too bad it’s super outdated now, but maybe it’s like antique appliances. Built to last. More or less. We can just get rid of that, if you want,” he said, tapping his pencil against the red star. “Anyway, lemme know about the arm. Judging by your progress, you should be significantly better in a few days. I don’t expect long-term damage, but the whole migraine deal might be episodic. Sucks, but those squid bastards did a number on you. Questions, comments, concerns?”

Bucky regarded Stark for a long time. Really, the only thing he had against the guy was him being an ass to Steve, and Stark had apologized. Hell, he’d gone above and beyond trying to make amends and if Steve could give him another shot, well, Buck could give him one in the first place.

“I take it back,” he said, “and I’m sorry.”

“Uh, okay?”

“About the family resemblance.”

“Yeah, well, my dear old dad always was disappointed in me,” Tony mumbled.

“I didn’t know Howard well. I used to admire the guy; went to the Stark Expo when it was in New York the night before I shipped out. Promised us flying cars. Meeting him, though. Man, was Howard a lot to take.”

“You spend much time with him?” Tony asked, bored, but Buck caught a hint of something in his voice. Curiosity wasn't exactly right. . .

“No. He was around, sure, occasionally had a drink with us Howlies and mostly talked shop, but Howard loved Steve like nothing else.”

“So I’ve heard.”

Buck snorted. “Almost as much as he loved himself. Peg once said he had a house in California with a portrait of himself in every room. I wonder what happened to him.” Tony leveled a flat stare at him. Buck cleared his throat. “No, I mean the Howard I remember from the war was a much different man from the one they talk about these days. I can’t imagine Howard settling down and having a kid, but I also can’t imagine him abusing that kid. He had a lot of flaws, but . . .” Buck trailed off.

“Like you said,” Tony answered, “you didn’t know him well.”

“Whatever happened to Howard, I’m glad you didn’t inherit it. You’re a better man than he was.”

Tony snorted. “You flirting with me now?”

Bucky turned his head, taking in the lab. The robots rolled across the floor doing various tasks. A similar robot had helped him move around his hospital room while he got the hang of the crutches, helped feed him when he couldn’t lift his head or arms. It was a far cry from the one time Buck had visited Howard’s lab in London. “Howard was a genius who spent his life building weapons because he could. Because they always worked and he felt he needed to create them to get them out of his head. You build things that help people, that undo the destruction your father left behind.” He shrugged. “I’ll totally buy you dinner though. Steve would be beyond delighted if we turned out to be best friends.”

A smirk curled Tony’s mouth. “You gonna show me wedding photos, too?”

“Hell no, those are all on Stevie’s phone. My phone is a million photos of my cat.”

Stark narrowed his eyes. “You don’t have one photo of your wedding?”

“Other than my lock screen pic, no.” Buck plastered on his own smirk. “I was in charge of capturing our honeymoon. I’m not sure you wanna see the kinda things Stevie and I send each other.”

The other man’s jaw dropped. “Cap _sexts_ you?”

Bucky picked up his crutches and made for the elevator, Stark calling after him. “You mean Captain America sends his husband dick pics? Does he even know how to do that?”

He laughed. “If you think Stevie didn’t get the hang of technology the day after he thawed out, he got you played like a baby grand.”

 

Steve struggled his way back to wakefulness, lungs aching in the brief respite before his brain remember he was ill and started with the coughing again. He didn’t want to think about what it meant that Tony’s promised ‘week, two tops’ hadn’t given way to him getting better. To make matters worse, Bucky wasn’t in bed for him to pathetically snuggle. No, Buck would be down in medical, which meant Steve had maybe a hour to talk to Clint before Buck got back.

Choking down his dose of cough suppressant followed by a fever reducer and water chaser, Steve threw on his robe and wandered out into the hall. Clint’s door was popped open, the sound of the sink running just beyond the door. Steve knocked, calling for Clint. Clint didn’t answer. Steve pushed the door open a bit further. Maybe Clint wasn’t wearing his ears. Sure, okay, it was a little rude to just walk in on him, but it wasn’t like he wasn’t trying to be polite. 

He peeked inside and found the interior bathroom door open. Clint stood, arms braced against the counter, head hanging. Bruises ran up his torso, the other wounds red and angry. His shoulders shook, even as Clint tried to calm himself.

Worry shot through him as Steve padded across the room. A box of medical supplies sat on the counter. Clint didn’t move. “Clint?” He’d been right; the new purple BTEs sat in a glass bowl by the sink. Gently, Steve placed his hand on Clint’s back. The other man flinched. It wasn’t until Steve rubbed between Clint’s shoulders that he looked up, offering Steve a watery smile. Steve blinked, fighting the urge to step back. How had he not noticed how worn around the edges Clint had become? Okay, sleeping twelve hours a day probably didn’t help, and yeah, it was tough to observe when his brain felt stuffed with cotton.

He offered Clint his hearing aids, and after a moment Clint put them in with a weary, “Thanks.”

“Clint, what’s the matter?”

“I’m fine,” he said, the response automatic. 

Steve frowned. “That isn’t what I asked. Here, let me help you.”

Clint didn’t protest as Steve opened the box and took out the sterile gauze and ointment. The bullet wound Bucky had put through Clint’s shoulder appeared to be healing well enough. Steve tried be to as gentle as possible; there wasn’t much he could do for the bruising, but he could at least bandage what he could. He’d finished taping the gauze over Clint’s shoulder when he noticed the burns, and his stomach dropped. The marks were discolored, purple around the edges—the beginning signs of infection. 

“Did your brother do this?” Steve asked, glancing up at Clint in the mirror even as he caught sight of two more burns. A fourth marred his hip. All inflamed. “How many are there?”

The archer stiffened but didn’t hesitate. “Eleven.”

“Oh, Clint,” Steve said, reaching for the antibacterial and the smaller gauze rounds. The burns went deep, second degree at least, and it took Steve a couple of minutes to realize they were made over existing scars. Clint started shaking, eyes averted as Steve worked. “Who did this to you?” he asked again, softly.

“Our dad.”

Steve taped the last of gauze in place and stood, backing up to cough into the crook of his arm. Damn lungs. “He burned you?”

Clint turned to face him and nodded, tears forming in his eyes. Steve immediately wrapped him up, holding him close. Clint tensed, then melted against him, burying his face in Steve’s neck. He stayed silent, the occasional hitch in his breath and the shaking in his shoulders giving him away. Steve’s robe grew damp, Clint’s fist twisted in the back of Steve’s shirt as he held on for dear life. Curling one hand around the back of Clint’s neck, Steve used the other to carefully rub along his spine. If Clint needed to let go, then he’d stand there and comfort him as long as he needed. Leaning against the wall, he took Clint’s weight and waited. 

“Nothing made my old man feel more powerful than holding a four-year-old down and putting out his cigarettes on his kid’s skin,” Clint whispered, finally. “If I cried, or made any sound at all, he’d beat me, too. Barney always came to my rescue.” His voice broke on his brother’s name and Steve held him tighter. Clint drew in a shaking breath. “He looks like him. Our dad. S’why he did it. With the cigarette. Knew where to put them out. I didn’t know how much he hated me.”

Steve’s hand stopped. “That’s why you keep flinching every time Bucky looks at you. Barney ordered the Soldier to light that cigarette.” 

Clint nodded, just once. “I’m starting to think I’m cursed,” he said, a watery laugh shaking him. “I never get what I want. I wished my dad would leave, and he took ma with him when he wrapped their truck around a tree. Didn’t wish for things after that, but I kept paying for what I got. They placed me in a foster home and things were good, but then I had to choose between a home and my family, and I chose Barney. I wanted a purpose, and found I was good at archery, but it cost me my brother even though running off with him was what made me take up the bow. He was always jealous because people kept picking me over him, but all I wanted”—Clint’s breath hitched—“all I wanted was for him to be proud of me.”

“And that’s why you protected him,” Steve said.

Clint nodded. “He’s my big brother. Only blood I got left. Can’t let go.” He shrugged. “I deserve this. I should know better. I fuck everything up, even when I don’t mean to.”

Steve’s heart shattered. “You absolutely do not deserve this, Clint. No one deserves to be abused. None of this is your fault.”

“I know Buck doesn’t hate me, but I can’t blame him if he did,” Clint said, face still buried in Steve’s neck. “I dragged you both into this, and then you both got hurt, and I still chose Barney. He’s got every right to be angry. I’m trying to make up for it. I’m trying to be good. It’s my fault this happened, and Barney is my responsibility. This is my mess, not—“

“Stop.” Steve pulled back, cupping both hands against Clint’s face, wiping at Clint’s tears with his thumbs. Clint’s eyes were red, color high on his cheeks. “You are not responsible for your brother’s actions. His crimes are not your own, and you cannot control what he does. I’m sorry he’s not the person—the brother—you wanted, needed, or deserved. I’m sorry he hurt you. I’m sorry you miss him.”

He gentled his voice, trying to get look to look at him. “It’s hard to distance yourself from the people you love when the relationship turns toxic, but you cannot shoulder the blame for him. You’re a good man, Clint. Barney can’t take that away from you. He may be blood, but he’s not your only family. You built your own. You have people who love and support you. Sam, Natasha, Kate, me and Buck. It’s okay to let him go.”

Steve smoothed a hand over Clint’s damp hair. Another long moment passed before Clint muttered, “Thank you.”

“As for Bucky, I know he’d never willingly harm you. He’s angry, yeah, but you’re his best friend, and he cares about you deeply. The two of you have always been close; we both know you love him.” Clint’s shoulders stiffened. Steve read the panic and guilt in his expression and pet his hair again. “I’m sorry we didn’t realize why you avoided him.”

Clint shook his head and went right back to his spot against Steve’s shoulder. “I don’t want—I won’t—be afraid of Bucky. I’m fine. I guess I’m just tired. Haven’t slept. Nightmares. I just . . . Yeah.”

“Clint,” Steve said slowly, concern leaching into his tone. “What do you mean, you haven’t slept?” Clint didn’t answer. “How many days?”

He hesitated. “Four.”

How Steve had missed the haggard expression, the dark circles beneath Clint’s eyes, he didn’t know. “What? Why?”

The archer shrugged. “Nightmares. Dad, then Barney, then . . . You’re sick and Bucky’s hurt.” Clint wavered for a moment before dropping back into him. 

Steve rubbed Clint’s back. “C’mon. You’re going to bed.”

“M’fine, Steve,” he protested, starting to pull away.

“If you think being sick makes me any less stubborn, you’re wrong. It enhances my power. You need to take care of yourself, Clint, and if you won’t, I will. Now get in the bed.”

Clint let himself be pushed out of the bathroom, but his protests started again. “No, Steve, it’s fine. I’m fine. You’re still sick, and—“

“You’re gonna do what I tell you. You really wanna argue with me?”

“No,” Clint said, voice meek.

Steve tucked him into bed, pulling the blankets around his shoulders. Clint didn’t protest when Steve took his ears out and set them on the nightstand. He brushed Clint’s hair back before signing, Get some sleep. 

“JARVIS, turn the lights out please,” he said. 

Clint gripped his arm and Steve climbed into the bed beside him, resting his hand on the back of Clint’s neck. He went boneless, head tucked under Steve’s chin. Steve stayed until Clint fell asleep, his breath evening out. Then he waited another ten minutes because Clint was excellent at pretending to be asleep, but exhaustion really had dragged him under.

Steve carefully extracted himself, wrapped the blankets around his sleeping friend, and crept into the living room for tea, the couch, and another soft blanket.

Bucky occupied the sofa, his leg propped on the coffee table and a very excited Ledi kneading his stomach. A couple of cat toys littered the floor. He looked up the moment Steve entered the room, a line between his brows. “Everything okay, babydoll?”

Steve sank down beside his husband and wormed his way past the cat to lay his head on Bucky’s chest. Ledi paused, offended, then licked Steve’s nose. He scratched her between the ears.

“I spoke to Clint, and then I made him go to sleep. You know he hasn’t slept in four days?”

Bucky frowned. Steve knew there was no way he’d let Bucky go after Barney—and he would, once Steve told him about the cigarette burns.

“Clint’s been keeping his distance because he thinks the Soldier intended to burn him, like his father and his brother did.”

“What do you mean?” Buck asked.

Steve sighed, resigned. “Clint’s covered in cigarette burns. I saw them when I went to speak with him this morning. He had trouble with the bullet wound his shoulder and I went to help.”

Buck swallowed, the guilt already in his eyes. “You didn’t tell him it was an act?”

Steve shook his head. That would have made things so much worse. “I told him you’d never willingly hurt him.”

“Doesn’t make him any less afraid. Shit. And he practically moved in because you’re sick and I’m immobile. What is this, self-torture?”

“In a way,” Steve answered, and Bucky’s face fell. No way around it now. “He blames himself for what happened to us. He’s trying to atone.”

“Stevie, he didn’t do anything wrong.”

“He knows that, too. Some traumas just . . . stick with you. I’m hoping he’ll feel better after he’s slept. And after you see him,” Steve added. “You gotta talk to him, Buck. He doesn’t want to be afraid of you.”

Deflating, Bucky nodded. “I don’t want him to be afraid of me. He’s my best friend.”

“I know. Let him rest for now. He needs it.” Steve leaned into him, relishing the familiar warmth of Bucky’s body. “I gotta head to medical in an hour,” he said, letting a tiny bit of anxiety into his voice.

Bucky wrapped him up, holding him tight. “It’s gonna be okay. I’m gonna get better in a couple more days and so will you. Just gotta tough it out.”

Steve nodded, closing his eyes. He’d had most of his life to practice after all, so what was another week? Bucky’s hand felt cool against his forehead, brushing his hair back. “Mmm, make me some tea?” he asked.

Bucky’s lips brushed his cheek. “Whatever you want, babydoll.”


	10. Ten

Bucky hesitated in the doorway, aware how creepy he probably looked lurking in the half light, struggling with the urge not to wake Barton and the burning need to apologize for being a total dick. There was no way he could tell Clint that it had been _him_ holding the cigarette and not Soldier, but he needed to make things right. He swallowed; Barton needed sleep. He’d almost decided to back out and wait in the living room (Barton had to come out eventually) when he caught a tiny gasp and the twitch of blankets. Barton stared at him from the far side of the bed, eyes wide, hands fisted in the comforter.

“Hey,” he said. “Didn’t mean to startle you.” The other man didn’t move. Barton wouldn’t sleep with his hearing aids in and it was likely too dark to read Bucky’s lips. He shifted his weight onto this left leg balancing the right crutch against his body and signed.

Barton turned and reached for the beside table, tucking one of his BTEs in. “Hey.”

“Is it okay if I come in?”

He nodded and Bucky moved into the bedroom, coming over to the side of the bed Clint had curled up in. He hadn’t untangled himself from the sheets, but he’d tracked Bucky’s progress. Buck felt torn between keeping his distance and crawling into bed, too.

“Barton—Clint—I owe you an apology. I’ve been an asshole, and you sure as fuck don’t deserve it after what you’ve been through. Steve,” he paused, looking away, “Stevie told me, about the burns. And the nightmares. And I am so fucking sorry.”

Barton scooted up a little, shaking his head. “Not your fault. I—“

“No. Don’t start. It’s not your fault. I’m the idiot who got up on a broken leg and broke it more. That’s on me. None of this is on you. I’m sorry I wasn’t there when you needed me.” Buck sat on the edge of the bed and gently place his right hand on Clint’s shoulder. “I’m sorry Barney did this to you. I’m sorry he made me scare you. I’m sorry that I thought you’d chosen him over us. You’re my best bro, and I’m sorry I put you in a position where you got hurt because I made the wrong call.”

Clint shifted back, and for a minute Buck thought Barton didn’t want him to touch him; instead he flipped back the blankets and opened his arms. “Hug it out, bro?” he asked, offering Buck a weak smile.

Carefully, Buck set his crutches aside and slid onto the mattress, taking care with his right leg. He wiggled his left arm beneath Barton and hugged him, cautious of his still healing wounds. Buck felt how much thinner his friend was, a pang of guilt flowing through him. Of the three of them, Barton had come out the worst. He pressed their foreheads together. “I’m really sorry. You don’t deserve to be treated like that. Ever. By anyone. Least of all someone who cares about you.”

“It’s okay, Barnes,” he answered. “I’m okay.”

“It’s not okay,” Buck said. He cupped his hand to Clint’s cheek, thumb brushing over a fading bruise. “It’s never okay when someone abuses you or treats you badly, especially someone who loves you. I don’t want to be on the list of people who hurt you. I want us to be okay. I want my best friend to know I’m in his corner and I’ve got his back.”

Barton squeezed him. “We’re okay, Barnes. Promise.”

Bucky pressed a kiss to his forehead before snuggling closer. Barton draped the blanket over them and gripped the front of Bucky’s shirt in both fists. They stayed like that, Barton closing his eyes and dozing while Bucky stroked his hair. Apologizing didn’t seem good enough, but he’d take his friend’s want of snuggles for a good sign. He hated that Barton’s nightmares now wore his face, but if Barton refused to be afraid of Buck, then Buck refused to feed that fear. It didn’t stop the tangle of worry in his chest, though, especially since he kept losing time.

Not to mention, last time something like this happened, Barton vanished for six months after. Buck wanted to wake him and make him promise he wouldn’t run again, but Barton still hadn’t recovered and desperately needed the sleep, hopefully nightmare free. He was exhausted, still not eating properly, and barely taking care of himself. Buck held him a little closer.

Barton wiggled half an hour later. Buck pressed another kiss to his forehead. “Still sure we’re good?” Buck asked.

“Yeah, Buck.”

Buck drew in a deep breath and sighed it back out. He opened his mouth to say something else when a shadow filled the doorway. Steve had a blanket wrapped around him and a mug cradled in his hands.

“C’mon, Buck,” he whispered. “It’s late. Clint should sleep.”

“Aw, Stevie,” Buck whined. “Five more minutes?”

Steve smiled, nodded. “Five more minutes.”

Buck went right back to snuggling. Barton chuckled. “Snuggle whore.”

“Shut up, you love it, too.” He stilled his hand. “I’m glad you’re all right, Clint. I don’t know what I’d do if you hadn’t made it out of there. You scared the hell outta me.”

“Sorry, Buck,” Clint whispered.

“Don’t be sorry. And don’t blame yourself for things you can’t control. Stevie and me, we’re here for you. Every time. You’re family. I love you,” Buck said. He brushed a soft kiss over Clint’s lips before extracting himself. With a surprising amount of strength, Clint pulled against his shirt, kissing him back hard, breaking contact the second Steve’s voice sounded from hall.

“Buck, that’s five.”

Barton let Bucky go and Buck collected his crutches, making to leave. “Coming,” he answered. “Get some rest, bro. We’ll do breakfast whenever you’re up for it. Maybe watch _Dog Cops_ or that baking show you like. Let us look after you for a change.”

Barton nodded again, wrapping himself back up. As Buck closed the door behind him, he tried to shake off the feeling of paranoia that settled in his gut. In their brief history of platonic affection, Barton had never kissed Bucky back like that. He chalked it up to stress. Barton was overwhelmed and over-exhausted. He’d said they were good. Buck had to believe him.

 

Clint managed another fifteen minutes of sleep before he struggled his way back into consciousness. The hearing aid he’d forgotten to take out left a sore spot behind his ear. At least he knew by the hush in the apartment that Steve and Buck were both asleep, the blanket of silence broken only by Steve’s intermittent coughing. He still waited another five minutes before fishing around with his good hand beneath his pillows. 

Natasha had returned his burner phone the day she and Tony dropped him at Steve’s floor. He’d wanted to take the bedroom toward the back of the apartment, rather than directly across the hall, but his guilt and self-loathing convinced him the closer he was, the more useful he could be. That’d always been his problem—desperate to be useful. And if he wasn’t useful, then—

He brought the phone up, the light from the screen stinging his eyes as he scrolled down to Nat’s number. He’d only called her on this line twice. Emergencies only. Since he had no idea what happened to his regular phone, and no way of reaching Nat short of asking JARVIS if she was in the Tower, burner phone it was.

She picked up on the first ring. “Are you okay?”

Clint worked his jaw a moment. What a futzing loaded question. “Come get me,” he finally managed.

“I can be there in an hour. Can it wait that long?”

He pulled the phone away from his face. 1 a.m. “Yeah, just. . .please. Nat? Do you know where Lucky is?”

“Kate has him.”

“I can’t call Katie. I need him back.”

Natasha’s breath puffed softly against the receiver. “I’ll text her. It’ll delay my arrival, but I’ll get Lucky and tell you when I’m en route to the Tower. Do you need me to get you first?”

Clint shook his head. Natasha was the best. “No. Can’t take the quinjet out again. Trackers.”

He could see her lips thin in his head. She’d know. She always knew what he wanted. Needed. And right now, it was Lucky. And a getaway plan.

“I’m on my way,” she said. The line disconnected.

After a minute, he forced himself out of bed. He didn’t have anything to pack; all the clothes he had were from his floor. They’d find their way back up there through whatever robot magic Tony used to keep the Tower clean. All he needed were his hearing aids and his phone. He padded out of guest room. Steve and Bucky’s bedroom door stood closed. Clint paused, sighed, and headed for the kitchen.

His body automatically started the coffee-making process. Coffee good. Maybe he’d feel a little more like himself. Once it finished, he pulled the pot off the cradle and brought it to his mouth, but instead of delicious coffee, the stench of wet cigarettes hit him instead. He gagged, nearly dropping the pot as he dry heaved over the sink. The glass hit the steel sink but didn’t shatter. The smell rose. Clint recoiled, back striking the kitchen island, sending a stripe of pain along his spine.

Please don’t wake up, please don’t wake up, please don’t wake up, flooded his thoughts as he stumbled from the kitchen into the tiny den. He’d be safe here. Nat would find him. She’d have Lucky. She’d get him out of the Tower. He huddled on the couch for twenty minutes, to be sure that Steve and Buck were still asleep, before he braved the kitchen again for one of Nat’s smoothies. She’d be proud of him.

It was too green, but food didn’t taste like much, so Clint couldn’t tell if it was that healthy kind of gross or just regular gross. He’d choked down all the purple smoothies first. Served him right, he guessed. The smoothie did nothing to fill the hollowness in his chest and sat heavy in his stomach alongside the uselessness and guilt. Steve and Buck’s reassurances were kind, but Clint couldn’t bring himself to believe them. He wanted to. He did. And aw, futz, this is why Tony and Nat hadn’t wanted him to be alone, but . . .

The elevator doors slid open and 70 lbs of golden lab landed in Clint’s lap. Clint groaned, but buried his face in Lucky’s fur, letting him nuzzle and lick and paw at him. He felt warm fingers against his as Natasha took the smoothie glass and set it aside. Lucky settled, his head on Clint’s chest. Natasha had a soft smile on her lips, her red hair pulled back in a loose ponytail. The baggy purple sweater and black leggings she wore meant she knew exactly what Clint hadn’t asked for. A soft-looking red sweater was draped over her arm. She held it out to him.

Lucky moved off Clint’s lap as Natasha offered him a hand off the couch. Clint stayed seated and threw his arms around her. Her fingers sank into his hair. “I’m here.”

Clint nodded. “I want to go home, Nat.”

She made soft, soothing noises, petting him gently. “I know. I’ve got you. I’ll take you home.”

 

The floor was quiet when Steve got up around 11. Buck let him sleep in, and he tugged on his robe before wandering out into the living room. He thought it’d be strange staying at the Tower, on the floor Tony had given him freely, the floor Steve had declined. His fever had finally broken, and now that Steve felt more clear-headed, he noticed the details Tony had added to the apartment. The space held Tony’s flair for the modern, but he’d outfitted it with retro accents, vintage photo frames in the hall with a couple casual team photographs. An ad for a Brooklyn Dodgers game. The furniture was solid, dark polished, the chairs plush navy, almost black. One star-spangled pillow occupied an armchair. Steve snorted. A small dining table filled the space before the massive window. An easel had been tucked into the corner along with a mobile artist’s rack. It wasn’t home, but Tony had put a lot of effort into making it one. And Steve hadn’t seen the entirety of the floor yet.

When he turned the corner into the kitchen, he found Bucky rinsing the coffee pot, an empty smoothie glass by his elbow. A stack of cold pancakes sat on the breakfast bar. Steve stepped up behind him, leaning in for a kiss before he noticed the broken expression on his husband’s face.

“Buck? What’s the matter?” Steve asked.

Buck set the coffee pot back on the cradle and filled the glass to let it soak. “Clint bolted. I got up and made breakfast, went to check on him, and his room is empty.”

“Maybe he had an appointment down at medical,” Steve offered. “They’d have taken him early. We all know how much he hates it.”

Buck shook his head. “No clothes, bed made. Only things out of place were the full coffee pot and the glass. Coffee was cold.” He sighed, shoulders rounded. “He said we were good.”

Steve rubbed circles against Bucky’s back, trying for hopeful despite the feeling Buck was right. “You know Clint. I’m sure he’ll be back. When he’s healed up, we’ll take him out for ice cream and everything will be okay.”

“Last time he ran, he was gone for six months.”

“I know. And I know how much you hated it. But there are no more HYDRA bases to destroy. Clint has a long recovery ahead of him. I’m pretty sure Natasha went after his brother, and with any luck, she’s broken all his limbs if not his neck. Clint’s probably at the loft, with Lucky, begging Nat to get him a pizza and marathoning trash television.”

Bucky shrugged, still miserable. Steve tucked Bucky’s head against his shoulder. “He said you were okay, right?” Buck nodded. “Clint knows you don’t hate him. I told him not to blame himself for what happened; you’re not allowed to blame yourself for Clint needing time.”

With a whimper, Bucky stood back up. “I can make more pancakes if you’re hungry.”

Steve smiled. “How about we make breakfast and get Tony to take the three of us home after? I think we could use a night in our own bed, too.”

“Yeah,” Buck answered. “Good idea.”

He cleared the breakfast bar and set to helping Buck make more pancakes. The thought of going home to their Brooklyn flat flooded Steve with warmth. He missed their home—and their life. A gray fluff of motion caught his attention, Ledi standing on her back paws before delicately clawing at the arm of the sofa. Steve couldn’t help but laugh.

Buck turned, said something in Russian, and Ledi slinked away like she hadn’t ruined what was probably a several-hundred-dollar upholstery job. “Think he’s gonna bill us for that?”

“Nah,” Steve said. “He’ll install a whole cat palace for her.”

Bucky’s mood lightened a little, and Steve had the feeling they’d be revisiting the Tower in the not so distant future.

 

Sixteen hours in a car never got easier, especially when injured. Of course, Nat being Nat, she’d stocked the car with road trip snacks and food for Lucky. They made good time, stopping only for bathroom breaks and a walk or two. Every time they had to go into a rest stop, Nat helped him out of the car and brought him into the building. She surprised him with hot chocolate halfway to their destination. He leaned against her, and she pressed a kiss against his hair. Lucky rested his head between them.

He loved that they didn’t need words. Clint had never been good with them, with expressing his emotions and thoughts, but Nat knew him better than anyone. She read him as well as he read her. Clint snorted when she handed him a donut. He nibbled without arguing. Natasha sipped her own drink and eventually took an eclair out of the bag. The sugar didn’t sit well with Clint, but damn was it a nice change from the endless smoothies.

They hit the road again, Clint watching the scenery roll by. Cornfield, pasture, cow, cow, cow, horse, cornfield, barn, silo, cow.

“Oh, look, goats,” Natasha said, pointing up ahead. 

Goats. Yeah. Nice change of pace, goats.

Lucky nudged his nose against Clint’s ribs and Clint dropped his hand to scratch Lucky between the ears. Sixteen fucking hours. At least Nat sprang for a car with seat warmers.

“Deer,” she added.

“What?” Clint said, looking over at her.

Natasha smirked. “Back in the trees. My side. Deer.” She reached over and squeezed his hand.

“As long as there are no chickens. Lucky loves chickens,” Clint said, threading their fingers together. Her hand fit in his so well, soft and warm. “Sometimes I wish things had worked out between us, you know?”

“Me, too.”

“What we have now—it’s good, we work better this way. I’m not—You’re my person.”

“And you’re mine,” she answered. “We’re exactly where we’re supposed to be.”

Clint smiled a little, watching the sun set, and few hours later, Natasha turn down a gravel side road. It was dark when she put the car in park and turned off the engine. The first floor of the white farmhouse glowed against the night; one window on the second floor had its light on as well. Lucky perked up, wagging his tail as he waited for Clint to let him out.

Natasha climbed out of the car first, coming around to give Clint a hand down. Lucky followed, bounding up the porch steps to sit patiently at the door, tail thumping against the wood. Clint leaned against the car while Nat closed the door. She reached up for him, pressing a kiss to his lips before she slipped her arm around him. Walking up the drive was fine, but mounting the steps played hell with Clint’s head. He felt awful, though that could have been the whole sleeping in the car and eating nothing but junk thing.

She opened the screen and knocked at the red front door. A shadow passed behind the front window. Nat leaned into him, her small smile reassuring. Clint looked up when the door opened, his mouth quirked up in the ghost of a grin.

Nat shrugged one shoulder. “Can we come in?”

The door opened wider, the smell of fresh baked pie wafting from the kitchen. A knot eased in his chest. 

It was good to be home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Arrowsverse continues in November.


End file.
